


We meet at Dawn

by rainberries



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: A dash of political talk, Alternate Canon, Claude is as cunning as ever, Dimitri is alive and King of Fodlan, F/M, Forget Claude's S-support conversation, Life at Garreg Mach Monastery, Mention of minor characters deaths, Mutual Pining, No beta; we go down like Glenn, Overall light-hearted, Post-War, Rating will change to E eventually, Trust, Verdant Wind path, but in a good way of course, but with a twist, romance focused
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26444500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainberries/pseuds/rainberries
Summary: “In another life, or perhaps a better world, I might’ve asked you to marry me.”Those were the words he had told her after they'd won the war, right before leaving.Now, nearly two years have passed since the unification of Fodlan. With Byleth in charge of the Officers Academy, the Monastery is finally ready to open its freshly-restored doors to students. But Byleth's heart is now a beating one, and the absence of someone she longs for weighs on her now more than ever.That is, until his unexpected return.And with him, the next step in tearing down the walls still standing between Fodlan and Almyra.[ weekly updates ]
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 65
Kudos: 139





	1. [PART 1] Every morning, the sun rises

  
.  
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**PART 1: _Midnight hues_ **

.  
.  
. 

_“In another life, or perhaps a better world, I might’ve asked you to marry me.”_

Byleth opens her eyes as soon as the words play in her head, sitting up on the mattress that’s ridiculously far too big for her. She holds still for no longer than a heartbeat before daring a miserable attempt at distraction using images of her past mercenary life. Images of having to use a rock as a pillow, peeing barely a meter away from a comrade and sharing chipmunk meat on a skewer when it was far too dark to hunt bigger game.

But even those aren’t enough to lull herself back to sleep, although that fact alone doesn’t come as much of a shock. The words that haunt her resonate in her chest with a dull ring, like someone plunging her into glacial water; air-knocking and painful. Byleth sighs and pushes the covers off her as she drags herself out of bed.

She reads the ticking time on her bedside table; it’s nearing five in the morning, meaning a few people will soon start to wake up to carry on with their own individual duties. She supposes it’s not such an ungodly hour to get up at, at least.

Even a handful of students, she’s noticed, wake up early to train on their own, already eager to improve merely a month after classes started. Those are usually the ones that stick out the most even if they’re not necessarily at the top or their class -always hardworking and pursuing greatness. It’s probably unbeknownst to them that she’s aware of their educational whereabouts, but she’s always been observant and attentive to details. Not to mention she has eyes pretty much everywhere. 

Incidentally so, because it’s not something she’s ever wanted. Or ever needed for that matter.

Power.

As far as she can remember, Byleth has never been hungry for it, unlike so many people she’s come across in her life. Even now that it’s been handed to her on a silver platter, she constantly keeps herself grounded. The last thing she wants is to become a ghost of Lady Rhea. No, her own control is much more passive.

It’s one of the ways she hangs on to herself -her true self: Byleth Eisner. Not a leader of Fodlan, not the Head of Garreg Mach Monastery, not the Archbishop, and certainly not the Goddess Reborn.

Wrapping up a silken robe around herself, Byleth unlocks her door to the outside star terrace, deciding to watch the sunrise and gather her thoughts before getting ready.

The days have been significantly better since the academy opened its doors again. Seeing students roaming about -all fresh-faced and their pencil sharpened, makes her heart warmer. It brings her back to what some might call the good ol’ days; seeing these halls full once again, marketplace buzzing with excitement and the dining hall as loud as it had once been almost seven years ago now. 

Today in particular, she will be holding one of her weekly meetings with the three-house professors, then doing rounds around the Monastery before holding a seminar on swordsmanship. 

Byleth makes sure to meddle in with the students instead of hiding away; it’s really the only way she has of normalizing herself in their eyes. She is nothing special, after all, and she wants both the faculty members and the students to treat her as such -as limited of a wish as that could be, because she can’t exactly ask for a miracle either. 

As the first rays of sunlight begin to peak through in the horizon, Byleth even dares a smile, as foreign and false as it feels, and sets aside any fleeting thought that doesn’t have anything to do with the day at hand. 

* * *

“I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting to say this, but my students are learning much faster than I originally anticipated.” Leonie answers Byleth’s opening question first, her eyes lighting up as soon as the words start running out of her mouth. “Even though they all have different backgrounds and sets of skills, they can all hold their own with a bow. Which has, frankly, already colored me impressed.”

Byleth studies her expression -the way she already talks about her students with such high praise pulls a small smile out of her. “Good,” she tells Leonie. “Any insight regarding the house leader?”

Leonie ponders over it for a second. “I think I’ve narrowed it down to two; Neena, very independent young lady who shows great promise, or Arthur, who seems to be both mature and skillful.”

A snorting Lysithea rolls her eyes then. “Please, I think we all know Arthur deserves the title. You’re biased towards Neena because she reminds you of yourself at that age.”

Now wearing narrowed eyes, Leonie angles herself toward her former classmate. “I suggest you focus on your own wingless eaglets before poking your nose into my house. Last I heard they were still terribly afraid of you.” 

It’s Lysithea’s turn to flush and stammer in response while Leonie victoriously clicks her nails on the wooden surface; Sylvain’s sniggering laugh echoing softly around the table.

“They- they aren’t afraid of me, just a tad intimidated! _Nuance._ Furthermore-,” Lysithea stops at the sight of Sylvain’s stance; amused smirk and body carelessly leaning back in his chair with his hands joined at the back of his head. “Can I ask what the hell is so funny?”

He seems to snap back into reality, although his expression remains intact. “Oh, don’t mind me. I was merely repeating the word ‘eaglet’ in my head until it lost all meaning.”

Lysithea pinches the bridge of her nose as she exhales her frustration. “… _Gods._ ” Then turning to Byleth, she slips back into professionalism. “I apologize for straying away from your initial question, Professor. I believe I am making progress with my students, just…at a slower pace. I need to work on my communication as well, I suppose. Although I do not deny the fact that most of them are brilliant and might really thrive at both Reason and White Magic.” She interlaces her thin fingers together, relaxing her shoulders. “I may need a bit more time to get to know them better before appointing house leader.”

Byleth nods slowly, her eyes gentle. “That’s alright. Going slower may be what you and your students need in order to develop mutual trust and respect. Just remember you can always come to me if you need any sort of advice.” 

Lysithea nods before turning back to the books in her lap. Even though she still shows similar spirit and pig-headedness as she did back when she was herself a young student, Byleth cannot ignore how she’s matured into an accomplished young adult.

“What about you, Sylvain?”

Inhaling sharply as if he’d just remembered he was a part of this conversation too, Sylvain raises a casual palm in a shrug. “My Lions are multi-talented creatures. They barely need me to teach them anything, if I’m being honest.”

Byleth scoffs, crossing her arms above her chest. “I doubt that’s the case. You don’t give yourself enough credit, Sylvain.”

He laughs at that, throwing a wink her way. “Just following your legendary footsteps, Professor.”

She doesn’t budge or react in the slightest, not that he had expected otherwise. “Just promise me you won’t flirt with any of your students.”

Leonie throws her head back with a _‘I’ll believe it when I see it’_ type of snort, to which Sylvain answers by tossing his hands in surrender. “Hey, I am a man of honor. I would never engage in flirtatious behavior with an underaged student.” He crosses over his heart. “You have my word, Professor.” Then he hesitates briefly. “That being said, I can’t really help if they harbor a bit of a crush on their end.”

“Oh, come _on_ , Gautier.” Leonie mumbles as she and Lysithea both cringe at the imagery.

Byleth doesn’t join in on their indignation. In fact, under Sylvain’s smirk she can see that he is implicating serious matters. She breaks into a soft laugh as she shakes her head. “No, I suppose not. But please make sure it doesn’t go too far. You may need to sit down and talk to them if it ever seems like their ‘crush’ crosses a line.”

She makes sure not to make it sound like something Seteth might’ve said in his days.

“That’s fair,” Sylvain agrees. “As for house leader, I’ve decided to go with Ben. He’s strong-willed, kind and trains more than any other student in my class. I believe he’s capable of setting an example for the others. Think of a mix between Felix and His Majesty. But better.”

The girls giggle in response to Sylvain’s comparison, and even Byleth cracks a grin. Her mind travels back to young, naïve Dimitri back in their academy days and she sighs. Boy, how much he’s changed since then. 

Now he is nothing less than the Ruler of Fodlan and the King of the Kingdom of Faerghus, and he’s got the world’s weight on his shoulders.

The thought makes her realize it’s been a few weeks since Dimitri’s last update, and she makes a mental note to send an owl his way later. They sometimes meet over diplomatic matters, but politics aside, she wishes to stay in contact for personal reasons, too. Call it protective instincts that haven’t faded with time, but she likes to make sure Dimitri does not drown himself in the pressure of his people’s expectations. 

Not that the people don’t already adore him though, because they do.

“Alright.” Byleth concludes after Sylvain has made his point. “Ideally, I’d like us to have our three house leaders for next week’s meeting.” The three nod in unison and Byleth stands up. “That settles it. Have a nice weekend everyone, know that you’re all surpassing my expectations.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

She quickly thanks Sothis that even six years later, through thick and thin and after everything that’s happened, the nickname stuck. Just like the presence of her former students, it brings her a special kind of comfort. 

* * *

After leaving the Cardinal’s room, Byleth makes a quick stop by the infirmary as she begins her daily rounds through the Monastery, checking up on the girls first. They are like two peas in a pod, that much is certain. 

Marianne is in the process of healing a rather nasty bruise on a student’s back while Mercedes is doing supply inventory, and both of them throw pretty smiles her way as they greet her. 

She makes her way to Manuela who’s taking notes and categorizing potions in her wheelchair, and places a hand on her shoulder. “How’re things today?”

“Oh, running smoothly,” the older woman answers as her hair bobs. “We’ve already treated a handful of recklessly adventurous students this morning. Although,” she shoots a quick look to the back of the infirmary, behind a drawn-up curtain. “We have a little bird who seems to have caught a flu from cutting back on sleep. We’re keeping her under observation at the moment. Making sure we keep her hydrated and the fever at bay.”

“Okay,” Byleth nods. “Keep me updated on that one. And make sure _you_ don’t overexert yourself.”

Manuela reaches and gives her elbow a gentle squeeze. “Will do, Professor.”

Having lost both her left leg and arm during battle, Manuela had been part of the people who struggled the most after the war. After having no choice but to get two of her limbs amputated, she recoiled into herself and fell into a depressive state of mind for a long, long time. 

Losing Hanneman, both as an old colleague and a friend, only made things worse.

She might not have made it past the darkness had it not been for their former students getting her through day by day, building up an inch of hope or two at a time.

Fortunately, working on rebuilding the Monastery also helped Manuela bounce back, particularly after Byleth put her in charge of the plan for the newly renovated infirmary. They were expecting to welcome more students from across Fodlan, and their safety was top priority in Byleth’s book. Hence the increase in staff needs as well. Both Marianne and Mercedes jumped on board with the proposition almost as soon as it’d left her lips, and it made Byleth nothing but relieved to have them around.

Skimming past the dormitories and the Cathedral, Byleth meets up with Shamir halfway through the bridge leading to the reception hall. They begin exchanging information regarding the latest scout reports all the while ignoring intimidated and curious glances from a few students.

Walking through the busier corners of the Monastery is reminiscent of older days, sure, but it is also quite exhausting at times. Although some students fearfully settle for ignoring her presence (she’s tried to soften her gaze she’d been told was alarming at best, she really did) most of them opt for a polite acknowledgment. Meaning it is technically expected of her to offer greetings to about a hundred of students throughout the day. 

Like she said, exhausting.

As if on cue, a girl bows in a straight ninety-degree angle, all freckles and toothy grin. “Good morning, Headmaster!”

“Good morning,” she pulls her attention away from Shamir for a second to politely answer. The distraction lingers when the girl beams in response, almost like she’d just been told fairies truly existed.

Her friend scoffs at her side while they turn the corner to the Officer’s Academy. “Okay, I know I said I despise children like vermin under my bed, but even I have to admit that was pretty darn cute.”

Byleth allows herself a small grin. She’s noticed how Shamir has been warming up to the kids since joining the Knights of Seiros and agreeing to fill the role of her personal advisor -she’s not about to ruin the progress by teasing her for it. 

Byleth waves as a small group of students greet her from the Eagle’s classroom. “Anything we should be worried about in last night’s reports?” She asks Shamir in a volume high enough for her ears only.

“Doesn’t seem like it,” Shamir answers in her usual stoic tone. “The surrounding areas have been quiet for days.”

They share a look. By now, they know each other well enough to find mutual understanding. “Too quiet?”

“Possibly.” Shamir cracks the joints of her fingers. “But we’ll find out soon enough.”

Nodding, Byleth’s eyes absently travel to the last classroom. The Deer. She remains expressionless, but not from lack of effort. 

“Any matter of importance in the mail?” Byleth asks, fully aware of the lack of subtlety.

Shamir’s eyes scan her face, but for no more than a second. “A handful of court requests, as usual. No threats in over a week -neither from Imperial rebels, nor from the opposing Church. No particular requests from neighbouring villages, although those will most likely be brought up during next week’s court hearing.” The knight hesitates. “No mail from abroad.”

Byleth’s vision clouds over. Still, her steps forward do not stop.

No mail from Almyra, is what Shamir really means. But she doesn’t say it out loud. Not anymore.

Not when almost two full years have passed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it folks; the beginning of We meet at Dawn officially out! Hooray! I'm planning this fic to strike a solid 50-60K words, but who am I kidding, I always end up writing more than expected so, who the hell knows, really.
> 
> As mentioned in the tags, expect a setting post-war of Verdant Wind, although with a slightly different ending. Hope you all like it, stay safe!


	2. Class dismissed

After the students’ lunch break rings one o’clock in the afternoon, allowing another ten minutes or so before the start of Byleth’s seminar. She speed-walks -not because she’s running late, that she never is, but because it’s just a much more optimal pace in her opinion- purposely taking quieter paths in order to avoid student masses. She’s changed into her armor; it’s light and not made out of much aside from sturdy fabric, yet her boots are heavy enough to click with every step she takes. Her hair is tied up in a high fish-tail braid, a trick she’s developed to avoid unnecessary pester during training, and she’s got a book safely tucked under her arm. 

Upon entering the classroom, students immediately fall quiet, from the first row and all the way to the back. Her greeting is short and to the point, wishing to cut back on trivial chatter to save more time for the actual lesson at hand. The seminar is only an hour long, after all, so Byleth wants to make the best with what restricted time she’s got.

She lays brief eyes on the room ahead of her as she sets her books down on the speaker’s desk. It’s full house for the fourth week in a row, with as many as six students squeezing into a single bench and some standing in the back; having given up on a seat altogether. She’s heard rumors, mainly from Leonie, of an attendee waiting list going around the Monastery. Byleth isn’t certain if it would be wiser to find a larger room to accommodate more students, or simply to cancel the event altogether and avoid overcrowding.

But seeing how eager they are to learn from her, all wide-eyes and scribbling at their notebooks as they drink in her words of knowledge like it’s peach nectar, she doesn’t think she has what it takes to cancel.

Her weekly seminars also just happen to be moments she finds herself enjoying greatly, perhaps because it brings her back to before the war -when everything was simpler and she was nothing more than a professor. Alas, times have changed.

Now moments where she gets to feel that way are rare; between her duty as Headmaster and the time she dedicates for the people’s faith -it’s almost like she’s split herself into three.

And sometimes, she feels like she’s losing herself in the mix. Or perhaps, giving it up with open arms.

“Before we begin,” Byleth places a sword on its display stand, then turns to face her audience. “Let me ask you; who here wishes to master the skills of swordsmanship?”

Somewhere between a third and half of the class raise their hand without a word. “Now, who wishes to be _proficient_ with a sword?”

The rest of the class raise their hand without fault, and Byleth nods. “Good.” She paces in the front the board, slow and controlled. “As most of you are probably aware, swordplay is undeniably one of the most universally used fighting skill there is. Outside of Fodlan, overseas and even beyond the lands we know, swords are being forged every single day.”

“And the main reason being, I think, of its unprecedented versatility.” Turning towards the black board, Byleth goes for the piece of chalk and writes ‘versatility’ in cursive. “Claymore, Katana, Greatsword, Rapier, Falchion, Dagger, Longsword, Saber -so many more that we all but crafted as blades to carry by our side.”

She turns toward the class, stern. “I’m not gonna talk about honor, or tradition, religion or even etiquette which seemed to have altered the way we see those blades. Because first and foremost, if you wish to wield it, you have to become one with it.” She lets a breath hang. “I think of the blade as my ally, and nothing less.”

The students whip out their notebooks when Byleth proceeds to drift into the much more technical aspect of the seminar; forging materials, grip and handling, footwork, weightbearing and balance. The words come out effortlessly, almost like a song she’s sung a hundred times before. The hour is going by before Byleth knows it, and she lays down the chalk to conclude the seminar.

“At the beginning I asked you who wanted to be proficient in swordplay.” She keeps her eyes on them, noticing someone visibly swallow in the front row, and tries to soften her gaze. “Remember that you don’t all have to become swordmasters.” She gives a little shrug with she hopes seems lighthearted. “We do need a certain variety of fish in the sea, after all.” A few students release a smile as she continues. “But having an advanced knowledge in the use of swords is unarguably something of value.”

“Things might not always go your way on the battlefield. It is harsh, and vile and ugly.” Serious faces return at those words, but their attention on her is undivided. “If you ever find yourself cornered and powerless; fallen off your horse, your lance snapped in half, your axe nowhere to be found or silenced by another mage, remember that blades are universal. They are everywhere. And if you have the chance to grab one just in time, it may mean the difference between life or death.”

Byleth sees a few handfuls of students nod to themselves, determination and understanding firing in their eyes. She exhales quietly, looking up at the clock on the wall.

“Well, I think this is all the time we had.” She takes the sword she had previously displayed for the class and sheaths it back to herself, grabbing her book from the desk. “Any last questions?”

A tentative, shy hand raises in the middle of the classroom. 

“Yes?” Byleth points to the kid in question.

He hesitates only for a second or two. “Well, it’s more of a personal question, but because of my smaller stature, I find myself with a natural penchant for the bow.” Byleth briefly wonders if this is one of Leonie’s students as he carries on. “But I was also interested in learning how to use a dagger. And I guess I was wondering if- if that’s enough?”

“I would, without a doubt, say that it is.” Byleth answers without hesitating. “As long as you work on your stealth and stamina, possessing both dagger and bow skills could be a huge advantage on the battlefield, both in far-range and close-range aspects.” She clicks her tongue, eyeing this hopeful kid without faltering. “Who knows, it may also open up a door for you to achieve assassin-class certification.”

The kid flushes with wide eyes full of awe just as a few other students release loud breaths, clearly impressed by Byleth’s esteemed suggestion.

“Th-thank you,” the blushing kid murmurs.

She offers him an encouraging smile, then scans the rest classroom. “Anyone else?”

“Actually, I have a question.” 

The voice instantly makes Byleth’s heart stop. Or at least, that’s what it feels like. Her blood freezes in her veins and her mind halts any kind of operation while time slows down beyond logic because _there’s no mistaking that voice._

A figure makes its way forward from the back of the classroom, a few students parting to make space as it steps through. When he finally comes into view, Byleth’s breath gets caught in her throat, her eyes wide as her mouth falls open. Her muscles go weak -the sound of her book hitting the floor doesn’t even reach her ears.

And he stands there, hair swept back as if untouched, tall and broad-shouldered. Their eyes meet. The smile is unmistakably his, his eyes betraying some kind of nervousness only she can see.

“Claude,” she exhales too early to reason with herself. 

He flinches in the faintest of ways, almost like she just struck a chord. For a second she forgets about the room packed with students and she thinks he’s going to answer with a _‘hello, my friend’._

But he doesn’t, instead clears his throat while his gaze leaves hers, ripping her away from that trance-like state she was in. She can hear the students whispering amongst each other now, all too clearly, and blinks as she notices the book she’s apparently dropped. 

“I was wondering how you would handle, let’s say, a flying unit coming at you from the sky, if all you’re using to defend yourself is a sword.” Claude’s tone is playful. She knows it by heart, but to the rest of the class, he sounds dead serious.

Every head turns back to her, impatiently awaiting her answer. Byleth, for the first time in her life, struggles to find the words. 

“I…” her voice seems stuck in her throat. “I- I’m afraid this is a very specific question, perhaps for another seminar.” She retreats her book from the floor and directs a nod at the class, not daring a last look. “Thank you all for your attendance.” 

And with that, she bolts out of the room.

* * *

“Claude, are you sure this is a good idea?”

The man is practically tapping his foot with apprehension, visibly appearing both antsy and jittery as he sits on the edge of a barrel. A combo Hilda has almost never seen on him. Correction: a combo Hilda has _never_ seen on him.

His foot stills then, as if he’s just been made aware of how much of his true colors he was putting out on display. In less time than it takes to say it he straightens himself and slips back into his typical cool, collected self.

“Sure.” He answers, nonchalant. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Hilda represses a sigh as she twirls a strand of pink hair around her finger, arms crossed under her chest. “Oh, I don’t know.” She starts dramatically. “Maybe because you’ve been gone for two years and are about to ambush her without so much as a proper freaking ‘hello’ first.”

Claude doesn’t answer straight away, instead folds his arms to prevent himself from playing with the hem of his borrowed attire. A disguise of sorts, if you will. Goddess knows Almyran clothes won’t pass incognito around here.

“I don’t want to risk being seen by someone we know. It’ll only create unnecessary drama and we all know drama gets messy.”

Scoffing, Hilda mumbles her sarcasm to herself. “Sure, ‘cause _this_ won’t get messy.” She then re-directs herself to address him directly, deciding to use the painfully honest approach. “What do you think will happen exactly? That she’ll see you across the room, ignore the crowd full of students to jump in your arms and declare her undying love for you?”

He shoots her a death-nearing glare at that, the same glare she’s seen about a dozen times in the past two years. She’s become used to it, grown fond of it even, but in this particular moment, it straight up pisses her off. 

“Oh, _please_. Don’t tell me the strict-no-Byleth-talk rule is still on? We’re _literally_ standing in her turf and about to-.”

Claude closes his eyes and rolls his head back with an exasperated sigh. “Hilda, if you could kindly stop blabbering, that’d be great.”

She blinks, raising her hands in surrender. “Fine.” She lowers her voice as she grumbles the last bit to herself. “Urgh, _men_.”

Claude exhales his relief. In all honesty, he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. He’s very much aware his plan sucks, but for the first time in his life, he simply cannot find an acceptable one. Every single plan that had entered his mind in the past few weeks had found the exit door eventually. He must’ve dreamed about this moment a thousand times, yet something tells him it won’t exactly go as his imagination has portrayed it. Reality is never all hearts and roses, and he’s all too aware of it.

His thoughts are cut short by students entering the classroom by the dozen. Claude stiffens ever so slightly, but thanks to their outfit change, both he and Hilda blend into the crowd like it’s the easiest thing in the world. No one even pays much attention to them at all, too busy chatting amongst themselves as they take up the vacant seats one by one.

Soon enough the classroom is full to the rim, and Claude feels the nerve-wracking feeling swimming back with force. 

“Damn,” Hilda snorts next to him. “I don’t think there’s ever been a seminar so packed back in our days.”

He hums in agreement, suddenly far too distracted by the sight of the clock hitting one o’clock sharp. He catches sight of the door opening in his peripheral vision and-

She walks in. 

And his organs simultaneously shut down.

Or at least, that’s what it feels like.

“Before we begin,” she says without warning as she enters, turning to face the class. The sound of her voice is just like he remembers it. The sight of her renders him deaf, and anything she says after that seems impossible for his brain to register. Her lips move, but they don’t make a sound. 

He thinks perhaps Hilda whispers something to him as well, but he can’t hear her either.

No, instead his entire focus is on _her_. The way her face matured like a flower that’s become fully bloomed. The way she’s styled her longer hair, still of that same inexplicable mint-green color. The way her porcelain skin looks unreachable. The way she moves as she speaks -it brings back images of his past, ones he’s made sure not to indulge in.

For a moment it’s like a second reunion in the Goddess Tower, only he’s the one climbing the stairs and witnessing how much she’s changed, how much she’s _grown_ in his absence.

His hearing gradually comes back. 

She talks of swords and balance and footwork and her words are borderline addicting even in their objective banality. Still, they’re brilliant, not like he would expect anything less from her. She hasn’t noticed him, thanks to the cluster of knowledge-starved students in front of him, and it gives him perfect access to admire her in silence.

So much so that before he knows it, the hour is up and Byleth is wrapping up the seminar with a question segment.

She offers a smile to the scrawny-looking kid who just asked something about daggers and her eyes move over the rest of the class. “Anyone else?” she asks, giving him the opening he needs.

Before it’s too late, or before he can chicken out, Claude gets up from his improvised seat and speaks, his voice surprisingly loud and even. “Actually, I have a question.” 

Shock spreads on Byleth’s face like wildfire as she recognizes his voice. Claude is at war with himself -partly regretting his plan and partly wallowing in it- and walks forward through a row of people until he’s flush and facing her, their eyes meeting for the first time.

He sees her eyes widen and her lips part slowly at the realization. The events unfold like some kind of strange dream; he barely even acknowledges the fact that she’s dropped her book on the floor. A clumsy act that’s so un-like her. Claude swallows his nervousness which he disguises with an all-too-easy-to-use grin.

But then she speaks his name, and his knees almost give out under his weight. Something tugs in his chest at the way she pronounced it, whispered it, and he can feel his brows flinch in defense. He struggles to recollect himself, remembering the room full of students and breaking eye contact as he clears his throat and asks the first, dumb question which pops in his head.

“I was wondering how you would handle, let’s say, a flying unit coming at you from the sky, if all you’re using to defend yourself is a sword.” 

He tries to make it casual, funny. Almost reminiscent of their sparring days, if you squint. But to anyone who knows him well enough, he’s completely off his game.

Students repeatedly snap their heads back and forth between him and Byleth, awaiting her answer with palpable curiosity.

“I…” she exhales and against all odds, falters. “I- I’m afraid this is a very specific question, perhaps for another seminar.” She picks up her book, avoiding his eyes. “Thank you all for your attendance.”

And as fast as a colt released from its paddock, she exits the classroom, leaving the students chatting speculations amongst themselves in obvious confusion.

“Wow,” Hilda whistles behind him, drawing his attention. “Nicely done, sailor.”


	3. Never a stranger

Byleth doesn’t breathe until she’s locked herself into her personal chambers, her back against the door as she stares up at the ceiling. Stars, moons and suns dance around in a sea of cold and warm tones, and floating under it, a Pegasus with its wings spread. There’s a rider on its back, lying down as if peacefully sleeping, and reaching out for the stars with their sword. A glowing sword. The sword of the Creator. The rider’s hair overflows around their face; an emerald color that’s so similar to hers.

Almost two years ago now, she accepted Dimitri’s plea to help him lead the people of Fodlan and was chosen to take over the Officers Academy, along with its religious influence. After it was decided that she was to move into the Archbishop’s chambers, Ignatz painted this ceiling as a gift to her. It took him weeks of work; he asked her to see it as a token of his gratitude for everything she had done for the Golden Deer. Everything she had done to save Fodlan. Tears had prickled behind her eyes then, but she hadn’t allowed them to fall.

Since then, she often looks up to find comfort in the brushstrokes. She chases after the colors to give her hope; after the imagery to lend her strength in times of need.

In this moment however, it doesn’t seem to be enough to calm down the hammering of her pulse in her arteries. The thoughts swirl like there’s a storm in her head, yet her mind remains as blank as a white canvas. Questions overlap each other, but do any of them really matter? Probably not.

As her pulse start to slow down, Byleth’s grip on the doorknob slackens. Still, her feet seem unwilling to move at all, and minute after minute ticks by in the quietness of her own room. Her eyes scan over the painting once more; pausing at every detailed star meant to represent each of the students. She stops at the last and largest one. She recalls Ignatz’s passionate words describing it as the brightest star out of them all. The Sun. Their leader.

Claude.

Her eyes faintly narrow. She’s never voluntarily hid from anything, or any _one_ , before. She doesn’t see a reason to start now.

Suddenly turning around and reaching for the doorknob, Byleth swings the door open and steps into the hallway, coming face to face with a startled guard.

“Oh, uh-. My apologies, Headmaster.” He bows. “I’ve been informed of a guest requesting a hearing. Apparently, they’re wearing foreign clothing. And they state their business with you is urgent.”

* * *

Even though Byleth braces herself as the guards open the doors of the Audience chamber, it’s still not quite enough as the sight of Claude himself greets her; standing in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets and a stubborn lock of hair falling over his eyes. To any bystander, it may as well just look like he’d been taking a brisk walk in the park.

His head jerks up not a second later, his mouth slipping into a casual smile as their eyes meet.

Byleth turns her head toward the guards. “Leave us, please.”

The guards nod and bow before exiting the room one at a time. It’s not until the doors thud close that Byleth dares a quiet exhale, twisting back to face her long-lost friend. She swallows the lump in her throat, torn between dreading this situation altogether and giving into the desire to burry herself in his frame -all so she could tune out the rest of the world.

The corner of his lip twitches, a sign of the uneasiness hiding under his persona. “Heya, Teach.”

She doesn’t answer. Pushes down the emotions stirring up within her at the nickname -one she hasn’t heard in years. Her eyes stay glued to his face; studying it as if it would somehow get him to crack open like an egg and spill all his truths. The good and the bad.

Her attention then drifts to his olive skin -perhaps more sun-kissed than what she recalls. Knowing the weather in Almyra is much warmer, it doesn’t come as much of a surprise.

Still, it makes his eyes stand out even more, and she has to forcibly peel her own away.

Claude shifts suddenly, releasing a short sigh. “You’re angry, I know. And you have every right to be, but-.”

“I’m not angry,” Byleth interrupts, crossing her arms with a shrug. “Just…confused.”

Claude stares with his mouth ajar, surprise dancing in his eyes. “Confused?” He echoes.

Byleth acquiesces with a nod. “I guess you could say I have several questions.”

“Ah,” he breathes and his grin travels back home. “With great reason, I must admit. Please, do ask.”

Byleth paces around him until her back is to Archbishop’s throne (a seat she loathes to use herself) and she skims past the awkward tension hanging in the air before speaking. “I suppose you’re here for a reason.”

It’s a statement more than it is a question, and Claude recollects with a front of seriousness. “I am.” He pauses and clears his throat. “As you probably long ago figured out, I’ve spent the past two years working in Almyra, to change things for the better. The unification of Fodlan was only the first part of my dream, after all.” He smiles a little at that, and Byleth nods, encouraging him to continue.

Truth be told, way back when she’d held her own educated guess as to where exactly Claude had flown off to. Based on the conversations they’d had; the bits and pieces of details he’d shared with her over the years, it hadn’t been difficult to come to the one conclusion. Claude was in Almyra. His home country. Taking his dream to the next challenge.

Months later, Hilda’s letter had confirmed her suspicion.

Back then, she hadn’t known it would be the only letter she’d receive from either of them.

“And now that the people’s ideologies are evolving,” Claude continues. “I figured it was time to take things a step further.” He shrugs dismissively. “The timing isn’t impeccable, but I can’t say it’s the worst either.”

Byleth narrows her eyes slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I…” Claude lets the word hang, although it seems voluntary. His smile transforms into a genuine one, a façade he used to reveal to her and her only. “I have a proposition for you, my friend.”

Again, the nickname tugs at something in her chest, and Byleth fights to ignore it. She tilts her head, barely, while her mouth remains shut; letting him know he is welcome to explain without interruption.

And before doing so he inhales, as if cueing the start of a monologue. “You see, every day spent in Almyra, I would walk around and observe the people. Merchants, hunters, artists, mothers, fathers, children. Both in wealthy and destitute territories, I wanted to learn from them, get to _know_ them.” He pauses and meets her eyes. “And I did.”

“But that wasn’t enough, obviously. I wanted them to learn from me as well; learn how to see the world in a different eye, to welcome other cultures, to oversee prejudices we hold over foreign territories and accept the fact that at the flesh and at the bone, _we are all the same._ ”

As he takes a step closer, Byleth disregards the nerves telling her to take a step back and instead, decides to stand her ground. She recognizes the passion in Claude’s words. It’s still unchanged from the last time she’d witnessed it.

It eases some of her worries, at least.

“For the longest time I wondered if I would ever succeed in truly neutralizing those preconceptions; the ones we believe make us so _different_.” His earing jiggles with his movement; it’s slightly different from the one she remembers -more oriental, perhaps- but it suits him. “Until one day it hit me.”

“The only way to make them understand that cohabitation is possible…is to make it a reality.” Byleth blinks repeatedly at his words, tensing as the quirk to Claude’s lips confirms where this is going. “And that idea would’ve been totally out of reach, had I not received news that the Monastery was officially re-opening its doors to students.”

The sentence resonates in her eardrums. Claude appears to be done explaining and instead patiently awaits a reaction from her, suggestive grin still safely in place. Byleth had drawn out the obvious conclusion before he was even done speaking, yet she remains unsure of what to say.

Eventually her thoughts come forth. “So, you’re telling me you wish for the Academy to welcome Almyran students?”

Claude seems confident in his proposition as he lowers and squares his shoulders. From the look of it, he appears to make a valid effort to keep his expression modest. “That is what I’m suggesting, yes.”

Byleth takes her time to absorb the idea, reflecting over it as she passes her tongue over her lips mindlessly. “Okay,” she murmurs at last, eyes flicking back up to him as she nods. “I agree, think it’s a good idea.”

His eyes light up as soon as the words leave her mouth, but it is short-lived as she adds: “I can request revision of the registration guidelines for next year’s enrolment.”

“Erh, yeah. I should’ve been clearer,” Claude shifts again, scratching the back of his head as he laughs. “I was actually referring to this year’s cohort.”

“This year?” Byleth repeats, then her eyes go wide for a split second before they narrow down into an accusatory frown, putting two and two together. “Claude, please tell me you didn’t secretly sneak kids in here.”

Raising his hands in defense, Claude shakes his head with vigor. “I swear I haven’t.” He pauses, biting the inside of his cheek. “They’re…waiting in a nearby village.”

Byleth rubs her forehead as she releases a breath that sounds dangerously like a warning. “Claude-.” It strangely feels like she’s back in her professor skin, reprimanding him after he’s pulled some unimaginable scheme. “We’re still in the process of adapting to so many changes, no to mention classes have already begun a month ago.”

“I know, I know.” He attempts to ease her worries by justifying himself. “Now you know what I meant when I said the timing isn’t impeccable.” He offers a lopsided smile. “But, Teach, after getting to know some of these kids…” Claude’s eyes lose their focus, like he’s recalling a valued memory. “Some of them have never step foot outside the borders. Being part of something bigger -something like the Officer’s Academy, was never even an option. And after seeing their interest sparked with the thought of endless possibilities, I just knew.” His eyes soften as he murmurs the last words. “I knew it had to be sooner than later.”

Byleth feels the tension gradually leave her muscles. Claude’s gaze is genuine and persuasive. His presence on its own screams wisdom and strength, and in a way it’s why she’s always believed he was born to be a leader. Even if unknowingly or unwillingly, Claude has always managed to make her _understand_ , make her see the world as if she was looking at it through his eyes.

The emotion he portrays shapes her thoughts like they’re malleable, and she soon finds herself giving in.

She exhales, dropping her arms at her side. Eventually, she allows a scoff past her lips. “You couldn’t have sent me a letter to at least give me a heads up, huh?”

Seeing her adopt a more casual demeanor is a relief and Claude releases the breath he’d been holding, the corner of his mouth inching upwards. “And miss that one in a lifetime reaction of yours when I walked in unannounced? Now where’s the fun in that?”

His tone is lightheartedly teasing, a little playful even, and Byleth rolls her eyes while biting back a smile.

“At the very least maybe not in a room packed with students?” She eyes him as she folds her arms. “You know those kids jump on gossip like it’s a piece of meat, right?”

Claude lets his eyes fall to the floor, a titter flowing past his lips. Could he be…embarrassed? “Alright, I must admit that was poor judgement on my part.”

Byleth has to stifle a giggle threatening to escape, and somehow Claude doesn’t miss it. His gaze travels back to her and for a minute, nothing seems to matter quite as much this. It looks as though he’s studying her every detail, pinpointing what has changed and what hasn’t in the years they’ve been apart, a soft smile delicately painted on his face. It’s almost…endearing.

Suddenly the _words_ , the very last words he said to her before disappearing echo in her head like an abrupt wake up call.

_“In another life, or perhaps a better world, I might’ve asked you to marry me.”_

It knocks her back into reality with an aching stab, her unbidden pulse increasing. Then, as if he can hear her thoughts, Claude speaks in a low voice.

“Listen, I…”

An automatic defense mechanism of sorts kicks in and Byleth clears her throat loud enough to interrupt whatever he was about to say. Part of her yearns to hear it, but the rest dreads it like the plague. And in the end, it is neither the time nor place.

“I’m afraid I have to get going.” Is the first thing she says as she tears her eyes away from him. Her face has closed up once more, and her voice is stern. “There’s a meeting with the council tomorrow, I’ll see what I can do.” It’s hard to miss the scrunch of his nose at the word _council_ , but Byleth doesn’t bother acknowledging it. “How many students are we talking about?”

It takes a moment -probably longer than it should have- for Claude to hide his disappointment, his face falling ever so slightly before he mimics her professionalism. “Twelve.”

Nodding, Byleth makes a few mental notes. “Meet me back here tomorrow at dusk?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

She nods once more, brushing past him and opening the doors of the Audience chamber, revealing a handful of guards waiting in the hallway. Turning to Claude, Byleth keeps her eyes cold and her emotions hidden. “I’ll see you then.”

Taking it as the end to the conversation, Claude swallows the rue climbing up his throat and nods. He watches her turn around and hears his own voice calling out to her before it’s too late.

“By the way.” She stops in her track, twists around with an arched brow. He flashes a dry grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hilda came back with me, and I’m pretty sure she’s dying to see you.”

Byleth blinks, a bittersweet feeling nudging in her gut. Her smile is small, and she wears it like a mask as she answers. “The feeling is mutual.”

And with that, her figure disappears down the hallway.

* * *

Byleth spends the rest of the afternoon in her office, overloading her thoughts with trivial incidents reports and paperwork until there’s room for no more. She stays in until the daylight is gone; way well past supper time in the dining hall.

It’s a Friday night; the only time of the week where the training hall is closed off to students -a newly established rule implemented in the hopes that students would take it as an opportunity to unwind. And whether it be by visiting relatives, tucking in early or getting some additional studying done with peers, it was proving to be an overall successful initiative.

It’s a Friday night, and Byleth grabs the chance to blow off steam without thinking twice about it.

She turns and lunges forward, crouches and dodges the mechanical dummy’s foreseeable attack as she pretends to have its movement take her by surprise. The prototype is a new invention with no more than three speed settings; revolutionary for the students, she admits. But for her, it’s unfortunately far too easy to predict.

Byleth swings a hundredth attack with her wooden sword, aiming at the red ‘X’ painted on the dummy’s cushioned chest. Hitting it once doesn’t seem to satisfy her and she hits again, again and again until the training weapon pierces through her mechanical sparring partner with a fabric-ripping sound.

She stops, pulse hammering and sweat dripping down her back, and stares at the damaged dummy before her eyes. Inhaling deeply in order to slow down her pants, Byleth lowers her weapon to the ground and sighs. Before she can begin cleaning up her mess however, the sound of someone entering the room instantly attracts her attention and she zeros in on the intruder.

Walking in without a word, Shamir sighs as her eyes fall over the scene before her. “I can’t say I’m surprised to see you’ve managed to destroy Cyril’s pride and joy.”

Byleth slouches ever so slightly after releasing a breath, twisting back to the gutted dummy with its hay-like insides spilling out on the floor.

“I’ll make sure to apologize,” she answers, deadpan. “If you see him before I do, let him know I’ll get it fixed before Monday.”

Shamir hums, making her way towards the center of the room until Byleth’s back is no longer facing her, then leans her hip on the wall -her arms crossed.

“Given the circumstances, I’m sure he could show understanding.”

Byleth visibly freezes. Her stare is glued to the scattered bits of straw at her feet -she can practically feel the intensity of Shamir’s gaze. Biting her tongue, Byleth picks up her training sword from the ground and places it back in storage. “You heard.”

It takes a moment before Shamir answers. “Word reached me before dinner.”

“Hm,” Byleth hums, void of humor. “That was faster than even I had anticipated.”

She turns back slowly, although she’s clearly avoiding eye contact. Her friend remains quiet -it reaches a point where Byleth begins to believe she’s got nothing else to add. Until:

“How are you?” A pause. “Truly.”

Flipping and twisting the question over in her head, Byleth cannot ignore how difficult it is to remain expressionless. It’s never been that hard in the past -in fact it was as if she had been _born_ emotionless. Being composed and collected had always been as easy as breathing. After all, never had she shed a tear until her father’s death. Never had she understood the meaning of despair until she saw former students falling lifeless at her feet. Never had she felt such regret as she did when striking down Edelgard -wishing things could have been handled differently from the very beginning.

Never had she felt as hollow as when the person she trusted the most left without a word.

Deciding to give up, Byleth answers with the only words that come to mind. The only words that do not sound like a lie.

“I… I don’t know.” Her voice is croaky and the scoff that follows is nearing the ridicule. “I just don’t know what to think.”

Her friend nods to herself and waits -patience has always been a strong suit of hers-, only breaking the silence minutes later.

“Do you still trust him?”

The heaviness of those words weighs on Byleth’s shoulders, but in spite of that she knows the answer by heart. Her head snaps back up and she meets Shamir’s eyes with certainty.

“I do.”

Shamir doesn’t flinch an inch while she stares -so hard it’s as though she’s searching for any trace of doubt. She must not find any, as Byleth notices relief flashing through her eyes.

“Good,” Shamir eventually says, the hint of a smirk on her lips. “The guy might be clever, but that doesn’t mean he’s not an idiot. Just let me know if you want me to knock some sense into him.”

Mouth cracking out of line, Byleth watches as Shamir starts making her way out. “Try not to annihilate another one of those,” she calls out while gesturing over to the handful of dummies placed away in the corner.

Byleth replaces a wild strand of hair behind her ear as she begins to clean up her mess, her heart a little lighter, and her mind a little clearer than it was when she first walked in.

And she will need it. There are still many hours left until the first morning light, and she’s got a lot of planning to do. Her thoughts will need to be in order for the council meeting, without fault.


	4. Words I use like a shield

“Dear Headmaster, you know we value your judgment above all else, we do. Alas, I’m afraid we believe this matter to be out of our hands.”

Byleth represses a sigh. She knew this was to be expected, she really did, but it still appears to worsen her impatience.

And the day has barely just begun.

“Out of our hands?” She repeats with a raised brow -which somehow still leaves her frown intact and pristine.

She hadn’t meant to sound daunting, yet the trio of council Bishops share a worried glimpse. One shifts in his seat, causing the wood beneath him to creak.

“Why, yes. Headmaster.” The First Bishop replies with a nervous twitch. “I worry that such a disruptive change might alert the students -and if I dare say, perhaps even lead to an unfavorable impact on their studies.”

Byleth hums in order to acknowledge the Bishop’s argument -an empty hoax she’s borrowed from Lorenz’ _the art of conversing_ handbook; satisfy the recipient until you make them believe you share the same goal. She’d rather eat spoiled trout than ever admit to reading it, but eloquence has always been one of her weaknesses. And she’ll take a piece of advice wherever she can.

“And I recognise that worry, First Bishop.” Her answer is calm, confident. “But we also want our students -the knights, nobles and leaders of tomorrow- to become the best they can be, do we not?”

“Well, yes-.”

“And what better way than to create a learning environment which demystifies prejudice?”

“O-Of course, Headmaster. But-.”

Byleth waits, but his strangled answer doesn’t make it past his throat. She leans with her forearms on the table, inviting the argument with open palms. “But?”

“But…” The First Bishop appears frustrated with his own loss for words. “What of the faith?” Genuine concern, it seems. “Already so many alterations have been transcribed to the books. So many doctrines revised. The people of Fodlan are Holy first and foremost.”

Her eyes narrow, but barely so. “You seem to forget not everyone’s faith is selfsame, First Bishop.” Byleth interrupts as her fists close. “I can assure you, your faith will remain untouched. You and anyone who wishes to nurture the Church’s doctrines will be welcome to harmlessly do so.” She pauses as the Bishop closes his hanging mouth. “However, people whose beliefs differ from yours will not be looked down upon nor banished.”

“And if I could kindly remind you, First Bishop,” Catherine swoops in suddenly, turning a few heads in her direction. “Those people of Fodlan you speak of oh-so proudly wouldn’t even have seen eye-to-eye if it weren’t for this woman right here.” The Captain of the Knights chuckles, leaning back into her chair. “I believe you can safely place your trust in her hands.”

Byleth notices Shamir’s amused smirk to her right just as the Bishop hurries with his next words. “Oh, we do!” There’s a slight waver in his voice, perhaps from him breaking a sweat under all those layers of linen robes.

“I apologise if we appeared ungrateful, Goddess Reborn-.” Byleth secretly cringes at the name, having told them countless times not to use it, even though she knows it’s all in good faith. Shamir brings a fist to her mouth, struggling to push down a knowing laugh. “We simply wished to voice our concerns. That being said, if you strongly believe this to be a wise decision, we will not question your authority again.”

Bowing his head, the First Bishop’s eyes flick back to her with genuine respect. Byleth makes a worthy effort in softening her own gaze and offers a slow nod.

“Please, no need for apologies.”

He bows his head again. “Thank you.” He shares a second look with the other bishops sitting by his side. “Because this raises diplomatic stakes, I assume His Highness already confirmed with his own approval?”

Byleth blinks, side-glancing over at Shamir. It doesn’t take longer than a second for her personal advisor to jump in. “Rest assured that both Fodlan and Almyran sovereigns have agreed on this. It shall pose no problem.”

All three Bishops visibly relax. “That is good to hear.” They murmur amongst each other briefly. “And, lastly, if we may ask; what will be of the attendance fee for those foreign students?”

Ah. Now onto the monetary details they all pretend not to mull over at night. The war had been harsh. The economy low, and the re-building plans difficult to afford. Nonetheless, the entrance fee was a matter Byleth would not budge on.

“The entrance fee will be the same as for the other students.” She stares at him perhaps a second longer than necessary. “Those who have the means to pay will, but those who do not will _not_ be refused.”

The First Bishop seems a tad defeated, albeit not surprised.

Once again, Catherine feels the need to step in. “No need to trouble yourselves with pecuniary issues, lords.” She smiles. “I assure you gold is wisely managed; resources and provisions for the winter are being met well above the monastery’s needs.”

He blinks, once, twice. “Of course, Lady Catherine. We have confidence in you and your men’s ingenuity and experience. Still, it is good to get reassertion that things are well.”

Catherine nods at him, and silence returns to the table. Wishing to be rid of the Council Bishops’ inquietude, Byleth wills herself to bring up the last trivial details, and finally put their minds at ease.

“I will soon meet with the twelve applicants and, just like any other student, they will have to pass the entrance exam first.” She pauses. “Those that do will be accepted as students of the Officers Academy.”

It takes a second, but eventually the Bishops willingly concede. “That seems appropriate.”

Byleth oppresses her breath of relief. Her feet already itching to carry her away from this table and out of this room. “If there is no further matter for us to discuss,” she calls out, rising from her chair. “We may take our leave.”

The Bishops are quick to follow suit, bowing their heads to the women across the table. “Very well. Ladies, Headmaster.”

Byleth leads them out of the vast room and does not turn until the doors are closed and far away behind them. Catherine offers a grin and a farewell before retreating to the Knight’s Hall.

After two years of working alongside Catherine, Byleth had grown accustomed to her well enough to know where she drew the line. Having found out a few months after the war that Rhea, while lying on her death bed, had begged Catherine to pledge her sword to Garreg Mach, her unmatched dedication began to make more sense.

She showed Byleth respect, rarely pursued explanations to her decisions and chose to follow her leadership with unfaltering trust, which without a doubt made her an ally of great value. But it was clear she would never get over Rhea’s death, and for that, Byleth couldn’t blame her.

Appointing her Captain of the Knights of Seiros had been a decision she long contemplated, and in the end, Catherine proved it was a role she had been born to fill.

After Catherine departs, Byleth turns to Shamir with wit tugging at her brow. “You didn’t actually receive word from Dimitri, did you?”

The Knight clicks her tongue. “Nope. But there’s no doubt in my mind of what his answer would be.” She scoffs. “The boy still sings praises of you day and night.”

* * *

Claude sets foot into an empty audience chamber while the sun is still setting -perhaps a little too eager to hear news of Byleth’s council meeting. There’s no telling how many people are in that council, nor exactly _who_ is in it aside from Teach herself. He’s heard whispers of Shamir having stuck around instead of leaving like she had always mentioned. Whispers of Lorenz and Felix claiming important diplomatic responsibilities, both in past Alliance, Kingdom and Empire territories. But all without tangible proof of…anything really.

(And by whispers, he meant Hilda.)

He only had himself to blame for the lack of information; turning a blind eye to Garreg Mach business had been something he’d done voluntarily. Because leaving required him to mentally and emotionally distance himself of it all.

Otherwise, who knows if he would’ve had the strength to stay away.

In any case, Claude thinks as he paces around the room, mindlessly whistling to himself, there isn’t much he can do right now besides waiting and hoping the negotiations turned in his favor.

A set of coloured voices emerges from far down the hallway, teasing Claude’s attention away from a particularly intricate painting. The voices grow louder and clearer with each passing second and, unfortunately for him, he recognizes them a little too late.

“Well, well, well,” Leonie tuts in the large doorway. “Look who finally crawled out of their hole.”

Slight panic settles in Claude’s gut at the faces staring back at him. Luckily, Marianne interrupts the weirdness of it all by breaking the invisible wall standing between him and his former classmates.

“Claude!” She exclaims, her heels happily clicking on the floor tiles as she trots over to him. Her smile is wide and beaming, hands joined together in almost theatrical delight. “It _is_ you! I almost couldn’t believe when I heard the rumors! It’s been so long!”

“ _Too_ long!” Leonie carries on with a chuckle, no longer able to keep in character and following Marianne’s initiative. Albeit, more casually. “How have you been?” She offers her version of a warm greeting by punching his shoulder. “Are you back for good?”

Claude laughs -granted, a little nervously-, rubbing the already sore spot on his shoulder. How strong could this woman possibly get in only two years?

“Ah, I’m afraid that’s still up for debate.” His eyes travel past the two girls in front of him and find Lysithea, standing in the back with a scowl on her face. “It’s really good to see you guys, though.”

He tries a smile. If possible, the mage’s expression hardens even more and she puffs, crossing her arms as she pops her hip.

“Yikes,” a masculine voice murmurs and catches him off guard and he looks up -noticing Sylvain’s presence. The guy laughs (just as annoying and over-the-top charming as it used to be, Claude notes) before walking forward, partially hiding Lysithea. “It’s good to see you too, man!”

Surrounded by women, Sylvain suddenly appears much taller than he used to, towering over everyone -Claude himself included. Claude’s mouth forms a ready-to-use grin as he replies. “Tell me, what have you all been up to? I can only assume it’s no mere coincidence that you’re all here at the monastery.”

“Oh, so you really didn’t hear?” Leonie snorts in a strange mix of surprise and banter, her grin untouched. “We all work here now.”

Claude blinks, his interest piqued and his curiosity sparked. “ _Really_?”

“Yep!” Leonie pops her word, resting a hand on Marianne’s shoulder. “Marianne is a healer and an apprentice physician at the infirmary, and we,” she gestures over to the others. “Are house professors!”

“Woah,” Claude’s eyes widen at the news. A chuckle soon follows. “So, I _did_ miss a lot, huh?”

“You sure did,” Marianne declares, her voice sweet but confident. “We should all catch up. Everyone missed you Claude, even the Professor!”

Lysithea huffs from her corner, rolling her eyes. “Please, don’t inflate his ego any bigger than it already is,” she mumbles.

Claude’s next exhale is relieved to see Lysithea acting so much like herself. He comes up with a reply to rile her up even more when Leonie cuts in. “Don’t mind her, she’s still sour that you left without saying bye.”

Lysithea’s ears turn red and her foot twitches, probably itching to stomp. “Am not.” She retorts, visibly trying to keep an unagitated voice.

A thin giggle escapes Marianne’s lips. “So, what do you say Claude? Tomorrow would be perfect; they’re serving pheasant roast with red wine sauce at the dining hall.”

Before he can utter a single word, a series of _ouuhs_ and _ahhs_ bubble around the room with palpable excitement.

“To say I nearly forgot.” Sylvain slaps his forehead seemingly out of nowhere. “You _have_ to try it man, their new recipe is to die for.”

“Yeah,” Lysithea mutters. It seems the only thing capable of drawing the words out of her was the idea of delicious foods. Claude suppresses a snort as he lets that sink in. “Even Raphael and Ignatz sometimes visit for that reason alone.”

Four heads turn to await his answer, and Claude concludes he doesn’t have much of a choice but to give in. “I suppose I’ll have to try it, then,” he laughs light-heartedly. “Oh, and don’t be surprised if Hilda tags along as well.”

A few cheers -mostly coming from Leonie and Marianne- erupt around him at the prospect of another reunion. As the discussion starts switching over to various kinds of desserts, Claude feels the tingle of someone’s eyes -someone _else’s_ eyes- on him and he looks ahead, only to find the heart-clenching sight of Byleth leaning against the doorway, arms-crossed and the ghost of a smile on her face.

Watching over the scene with what Claude recognizes as fondness. She looks at peace. And dare he say, happy.

She meets his eyes across the room, and not a second later she steps forward, her expression reverting back to one much less vulnerable.

“Sorry to intrude,” she announces like she regrets interrupting the others’ enthusiasm. “But I’m afraid I have certain matters to discuss with Claude.”

The former students whip their heads in her direction, smiles decorating their faces. Leonie, as loud as ever, jumps on the chance without wasting a single moment. “Professor, Claude has agreed to supper tomorrow evening. You’ll join as well, won’t you?”

Her expression is hard to read. Claude thinks he sees surprise flashing through as her eyes find his. But then she rips her gaze away, almost as if she’s avoiding. There seems to be a slight hesitation before she answers with a nod. “I’ll try to make time.”

Eventually the quartet take their leave -not before Lysithea has to nearly drag the girls out by their ears, a sight which leaves Sylvain clutching to his belly with laughter. Byleth shakes her head at her former students’ antics, something which sure has not changed, and turns back to face Claude.

“Still the Golden Deer in mind, body and soul as I can see,” he chuckles at their figures retreating down the hallway. His eyes lower until they comfortably find shelter on her, then narrow with suspicion. “You told them I’d be here, didn’t you?”

She shrugs, attempting to hide the cunning aura threatening to come forth. “’Figured it was your turn to get ambushed.”

He laughs, reaching for the back of his head. “ _Touché_. I suppose I deserved that.”

The burnt orange light of the setting sun shines through the window then, illuminating Byleth’s face and causing her to temporarily go blind as she instinctively raises a hand to shield her eyes. Claude’s throat goes dry at the sight, and he tries to swallow it down but, gods, she’s not making it easy for him.

It’s almost impossible to deny how ridiculously breathtaking she is when she’s up so close.

Thankfully (or unfortunately?), she breaks the moment by moving an inch to the left and stepping back into the shade, bringing his attention along with her.

Claude clears his throat. “So, Teach, tell me… How did the council meeting go?”

“Oh, you know.” Her voice is stoic, yet there’s a certain playfulness laced through it -one he knows by heart, having used it himself countless times in the past. She paces around the room and it feels like she’s putting a spell on him somehow. Little does she know. “The usual.”

He raises a brow. “Aaand…?”

“And,” She faces him, her indicative eyes softening. “We reached a consensus. If your students pass the entrance exam, they shall be accepted into the academy.”

Claude releases a breath, eyes going wide for a second. He knew Teach’s influence to be quite significant -she _was_ the headmaster, after all- but had also mentally prepared for the eventuality of his request being refused. Still, in this moment, having high hopes had paid off.

“Oh, thank the _Gods_ -.” The words escape too soon. “No, actually, thank _you_ Teach, for making this possible.” He stops, his forehead creasing. “I guess, technically speaking, you _are_ the Goddess, hah-.” An awkward laugh. Uh oh, panic. He’s panicking. Abort. “Eh…that’s not what I meant-.”

Byleth brushes it off, placing a hand on his arm. “It’s okay, Claude.”

The touch seems to work its magic and he drops his shoulders as he exhales, his tensed features relaxing into a more natural state. He smiles, genuine with everything he is.

“Thank you.”

Byleth tears her eyes away, as though in fear of becoming captive. “It’s your idea, Claude. Your dream.” She pauses. “I just did what I could on my end.”

“Even so,” His mouth is forming the words on its own. “None of it would be possible without you.”

He means it. And when her eyes travel back to his, he can only hope she understands that.

A bundle of nerves fidgets in his gut. He’s back exactly where he was yesterday; finding myself drawn to her as soon as political matters are thrown out of the way. Could it be a consequence of having drifted away from her -of having denied himself any thought of her during all that time in Almyra?

If so, he isn’t sure if it’s a curse, or a gift from Sothis herself.

There’s so much he wants to tell her, so much he has yet to explain. So many words to be said, yet it feels like it is never quite the right time.

“So, then,” a grin plasters itself on his face. He prays it does not seem too clumsy. “I guess we’ll be seeing more of each other.”

Byleth blinks. Repeatedly.

“What do you mean?” Her reply is blatant, deadpan-esque.

He chuckles, rubbing his elbow mindlessly. “I mean, I’d like to stick around for a while. Keep an eye on my little Almyrans and ensure their transition isn’t all rocky-road.”

She keeps on blinking. He begins thinking she’s traveled to some sort of alternate universe until suddenly the blinking stops, her eyes going still as her lips part. “You mean you’re…staying?”

Hearing her whisper the last word cuts a wound in his chest, although he isn’t certain why. Claude masks the feeling with a smile. “Yes. With your permission, of course.” He offers a curtsey in the hope of easing up the mood.

The result isn’t entirely conclusive as Byleth remains silent. Gods, how much he wishes he could hear her thoughts right about now.

After what feels like an eternity, she nods. “Of course.” The smile she offers is bizarre, forced. “Why not?”

Claude sets aside the worrying detail that _Teach never forces smiles_ , and instead answers with yet another, but thankfully shorter, curtsey.

He sure hopes he doesn’t make a habit of it. Curse him and his ignorance on how to handle his own nerves.

“Thank you, my friend.” The room is a shade darker without the day light -Claude supposes it’d be wise to get back to the inn and tell the kids the good news. “When should they take the test?”

Byleth appears to think it over for a second. “Well, normally things wouldn’t be this rushed, but it _would_ be best for them to join as soon as possible, and since the start of a new week is around the corner… I’d say tomorrow is our only option.”

He nods. “Tomorrow it is.” A pause. “Eh…Say, that exam isn’t unbelievably hard, is it?”

Byleth cracks into a softer expression, shaking her head. “Don’t worry, if anything it’s more of an aptitude test than an exam, really.”

“Phew,” Claude exhales dramatically. “Didn’t want to have to burden myself with poisoning a monk or two.” Byleth cocks her head at him, a gesture that’s so _her_ and so damn rewarding. The wink he sends her way feels right in more ways than one. “Kidding.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to cave in and update twice this week, oh well! Next up, the little Almyrans enter! Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, please don't be too hard on Claude, my poor boy lmao


	5. A demon's voice can reach the heavens

Claude bites into a bright red, typically Fodlanese apple with a loud crunch. The flavour overwhelms his senses; tickling a nostalgia he’s been finding harder and harder to ignore. The common streets in Almyra may have colorful lines of fruits and a vast culinary experience to offer, but nothing quite hits the spot as an Ambrosia apple, cultivated directly in Garreg Mach fertile land.

Yet another proof that war is long behind them, he thinks with a content sigh.

The market streets are alive, already roaming with villagers busying themselves by filling up their baskets with the fruits of the Harpstring Moon labor; carrots, turnips, lemons, bread loafs and flower bouquets. One wouldn’t be able to tell this had formerly been a warn-torn land -the engaged merchants and gleeful faces a drastic contrast to what had once been. Claude supposes credit for such a healed country can only go to two very particular and irreplaceable individuals. The Savior King and the Headmaster of Garreg Mach.

He takes another bite of his apple, looking back to search for his little Almyrans, as he likes to call them, with a mindful eye.

Claude had been careful in how he had proceeded with their travels. Sure, people near Fodlan’s Throat were growing accustomed to foreigners wandering in Fodlan territory, but Garreg Mach was the furthest from the border they’d reached so far. And he couldn’t deny that his nerves had eaten away at him -for more reasons than one.

Perhaps the change of clothes had also helped with blending in, but all in due time. Everything is to be navigated one step at a time, after all.

He suppresses a scoff as he witnesses Hilda slapping the hand of Mosi, a soon-to-be student, inches away from putting a handful of dry thyme in his mouth. Even under the loud hum of the streets he can hear her high-pitched voice scolding him from where he’s standing. She makes a bit of a scene -arguing that it may be natural to be munching away on mint or sage leaves in Almyra, but in Foldan both the custom and the herbs are viewed differently.

Claude rolls his eyes, although amused. She’s not wrong, and he knows how much the kids are eager to learn more about the Fodlanese culture, but it’s all too obvious Hilda’s fondness for sweets (and hereby, disdain for spices) takes the reins on this one.

Mosi, although much taller than Hilda, gives her a sheepish look in response, and the merchant facing them across the stand chuckles at their exchange.

If he’s being honest, it’s an inexplicable relief to see things going so smoothly. Teach had told them to arrive at noon at the earliest, but he’d decided to leave the inn a few hours earlier than planned. In that way, he had hoped to offer the kids a first taste of the heart of Fodlan without any bitter flavor attached to it. And aside from a few people giving them curious glances here and there, there hadn’t been anything to warrant real concern. No insults, no downgrading looks and no disgusted spitting at their feet.

Yes, he can now say how good it feels to see his efforts of the last seven years finally start to pay off.

Claude’s thoughts are cut short by the Cathedral bells chiming, up on the hill. The reaction of the crowd is instantaneous; hurrying away from the merchant posts and swarming through like bees, huddling together. A woman bumps into him, nearly causing his apple to go flying out of his hand. She looks back apologetically while being dragged forward by her friend, mouthing a quick _‘so sorry!’_ which gets drowned in the noise.

“Hurry, Madeleine, it’s starting!”

Claude frowns at the commotion. After the thirtieth ring, the bells stop, and people fall impossibly and almost inexplicably silent. Whatever they’re expecting to start, it seems big.

And then he sees it.

Higher above and facing the cluster of people stands Teach, walking up to the edge of a balcony. Although, she’s barely recognizable.

“ _There she is.”_ Claude hears murmurs echo around him as he takes a few steps to get closer. “ _Oh, Goddess Reborn, hear my prayers._ ”

Goddess Reborn?

Byleth is now fully facing the people, her eyes closed and her hands resting by her sides. If they had been joined together at her chest, a position mirrored by so many in the audience, she’d look like she was praying herself. A perfect picture of a religious leader.

But knowing her as he does, it couldn’t be much farther from the truth.

Her hair is down -if it had appeared longer to him before, now there was absolutely no doubt to have. It’s nowhere near as long as Rhea’s was back in her days, but it’s unarguably noticeable. It falls in isolated waves around her face and on her shoulders, reminding him of a cascading waterfall. White and gold ornaments as well as delicate pink flowers decorate her hair, almost too perfectly placed to be real. She wears different layers of robes; thicker pristine ones interlaced with lavender-colored chiffon that seems to be floating around her. Her face remains bare, untouched; her pale skin flawless and leaving no room for improvement.

And while his mouth dries up at the sight, he cannot shake the bitterness in his chest.

Because she might be able to disguise it to the world, but there’s no mistaking the heaviness on her face. Like she’s ready to shrug off her mask and run away.

And before he can manage another thought, she parts her lips and starts singing.

_I want to give you something more_

_Something to hold within your palms_

_Something that cannot be taken away, away, away, away_

_Above the clouds you shall believe_

_Offer a hand and stay safe on your feet, you will not fade away_

_Please let me offer something more_

_Something to hold close to your heart_

_Something that dances far away, away, away, away, away_

The voice is unmistakably hers, but if he were to close his eyes and listen, he’s not sure he would recognize it. It’s angelic. Ethereal. So quiet that it sounds like it might break, yet loud enough for everyone below her to hear and confident enough to inspire respect.

Her eyes remain closed. Perhaps she’s pretending she’s not here; singing only to herself instead of hundreds of devout believers.

Claude glances to his right where a woman sniffles, a used handkerchief wrinkled in her tight grasp. He blinks in surprise, only to notice the tear-stained faces of so many around him. Their eyes are wide and melancholic, admiring and worshipping the woman above like a figure of everything that is right and holy.

He raises his eyes back to Byleth, breathing in the words she sings.

_Weapons of faith to protect us_

_Whispers of love to hold us together, you will not break away_

_I sing to lend you something more_

_Something to seal your soul within_

_So come with me and fly away, away, away, away, away…_

_Over the mountains we will turn_

_Open our arms and accept each other, we are all one of the same_

At that phrase Claude’s eyes widen of their own volition. Over the mountains…accept each other…we are all one of the same?

Something warms up deep within him against his ribcage. Those lyrics…it can only mean that Byleth has had a part to play in writing that song.

He can’t think of anyone else at the Monastery who would want to implement such values into what is supposed to be a Holy hymn.

_I sing to lend you something more_

_Something to carry out with hope_

_So come with me and fly away, away, away, away, away…_

_So follow me and fly away, away, away, away, away…_

At last she opens her eyes as her song ends, and people immediately start proclaiming their love to her through their own variation of murmurs, waves, blown kisses and more tears. It’s funny, intriguing even, Claude thinks as he surveys the scene before him, that the adoration they show Byleth seems to be even greater than the one they showed Lady Rhea when she was Archbishop.

And back then, the Church’s influence was monumental.

Their adoration is oriented toward her as a figure of hope. It’s obvious, especially after hearing the words she sung. He wonders if it’s because she carried them past the war, or solely as a personage and representation of their faith.

Perhaps it is both.

Although Byleth has opened her eyes, they never lay upon the people as she keeps them low, almost staring at her own feet. Claude swallows the lump in his throat, suddenly wishing he could be close enough to scrutinize every shift in her expression.

She nods with a faint tilt of her chin before turning on her heels and disappearing out of sight.

After a minute or so, people begin drying their tears and returning to their own business. Claude resumes eating his apple but doesn’t have the luxury of drowning into his own thoughts before his gaze snaps sideways at the sudden flash of pink hair.

She’s balancing on her heels, almost playfully so, arms crossed and witty eyes staring up at him.

He represses the need to both frown and sigh. “What?”

Hilda clicks her tongue. “Nothin’,” she carelessly shrugs. “Quite a surprising hymn, that’s all. Can’t say I ever would’ve expected something like this from our dear Professor.” She pauses before gesturing to his chin. “You got some drool there, buddy.”

Claude is quick to wipe his lip, glaring at his friend. “It’s the apple.”

“Mhm,” she wiggles her brows at him. “Sure, it is.”

“Pardon me,” an unknown voice cuts in, and for a fleeting moment Claude cannot be more grateful as he very willingly ignores Hilda’s comment to turn to the newcomer. It’s an older woman, perhaps in her sixties. She offers a curious smile. “But you appear awfully familiar…you wouldn’t happen to be _the_ Master Tactician, once leader of the Alliance, now would you?”

Hilda scoffs loudly, reverting to admiring her nails as if she had completely lost interest in the conversation.

Partly regretting his hasty relief of a few seconds ago, Claude is quick to laugh it off with a hand to his heart. “Oh, you honor me, Ma’am. I’m afraid I am but a mere traveler, a simpleton, even.” He strikes a bullion-worth smile. “Although, I do thank you for your esteemed surmise.”

The lady widens her wrinkled eyes, appearing a little embarrassed. “Oh, thousand apologies! He was just so charming, you see? Charismatic. I believe that’s why you remind me of him.” She giggles, the sound a little croaky, but endearing. Claude’s smile widens slightly.

That is, until Hilda’s shrill voice comes barging through like a mace. “How interesting,” she hums, batting her lashes innocently and tapping a finger to her lips. “Do you happen to know what became of him, this…Master Tactician, was it?”

Corner of his lip twitching, Claude makes a mental note to later get revenge for Hilda’s apparent fixation on letting him sink down with the ship.

Or rather, holding his head under water with one hand while she polishes her shoe with the other.

The elder woman sighs. “Alas, he vanished shortly after the war. The Alliance territory was integrated with that of the Kingdom and the Empire, so I suppose he lost most of his responsibilities when the Savior King took over Foldan.” She shakes her head, almost sadly. “It’s a darn shame, if you ask me, for House Riegan to have met such an end.”

“You seem well-acquainted with Alliance history,” Hilda comments, and it takes Claude a ridiculous amount of effort not to roll his eyes at her spuriously sugar-coated voice.

“I am,” the lady nods with a proud quirk to her lips. “Having lived there most of my life. Ah, but as no more than a humble commoner, I admit.” She chuckles then, waving her hand vigorously in front of her. “Oh, excuse my intrusion. I fear that once I start blabbering, it becomes quite the task to stop me!”

Hilda giggles, flittering a dismissive hand. “Please, no need for apologies! We asked for details, after all.”

 _You_ asked for details, Claude comments in the confines of his own mind.

“Such a sweet young woman,” the lady reaches out to affectionately squeeze Hilda’s forearm. “I shall leave you two to it, may the sun shine brightly upon your day.”

“And yours,” Claude answers with a warm smile, bidding his goodbye as he watches the woman’s curved back retreating into the crowd.

He doesn’t wait much longer before turning to Hilda with an accusatory look.

“What?” she puffs. “You’re the only one who’s allowed to stroke his own ego?”

Again with the ego talk? Is she in cahoots with Lysithea or what?

He shifts his weight onto his other foot, groaning at the sight of the neglected apple browning in his hand. “I’m sorry, how is this _my_ fault? I barely said five words.”

Hilda tuts. “Ah, my dear Claude.” She sounds defeated. “We’re both aware of your antics and your way of deflecting unwanted subjects. It may have proved most useful at Alliance roundtables and even in Almyra.” She rises up on her tippy toes and plants her hands on his shoulders, looking at him straight in the eyes. “But from a friend to a friend, let me tell you…it gets _real_ old.”

Claude’s first instinct is to laugh it off, but he halts -because that would be proving her right. Instead, his eyebrows get stuck somewhere bizarre between a frown and an arch.

“She’s not wrong you know,” Mosi points out suddenly, sprinkling salt on the wound. Claude flips his attention to him and realizes his whole group of kids is just standing there, watching the exchange with laughable curiosity. “I was wondering how you’d act in Fodlan compared to home,” he shrugs. “So far, it’s pretty much the same.”

A few of the other kids nod in unison, and Claude rubs the back of his head with a smirk. “Well, at the very least it proves my authenticity, nah?”

“Ugh, see what I mean?” Hilda pinches the bridge of her nose. “ _Ego_ , Claude. All in moderation.”

He snorts. “Coming from you, that’s rich.”

Not being particularly ecstatic about making a spectacle of his…unique friendship with Hilda in front of the kids (he isn’t certain how to feel about most of them being very clearly amused), Claude ushers them forward through the streets; slowly but surely making their way to the Monastery.

* * *

While Byleth awaits the arrival of the twelve newcomers -the armor which she wears like a second skin back on and hair tied up in a utile braid-, she struggles to ignore the urge to unconsciously twiddle her thumbs. There’s a certain kind of excitement to welcoming new students and taking them under her wing. It reminds her of whenever someone would slip a hastily folded form under her door, requesting a transfer from their house to join the Golden Deer. Back then, it was merely a tingle; a confusing and unidentifiable emotion amongst few others she felt.

But now, she’s learnt enough about feelings to know how to pinpoint this one. Although, she might not admit to it so easily.

The door barging open has her turning to the group of people being escorted in. Shamir strides in first, as effortlessly as ever, a satisfied curl to her lips. “They all passed the entrance exam.”

Byleth can’t say she’s surprised, not even in the slightest. This was to be expected from students hand-picked from Claude himself. She knows he never would’ve brought them all the way here if he didn’t firmly believe they had what it takes to enroll and thrive in this environment.

She meets Claude’s eyes and in spite of her best efforts, feels her expression soften on its own. True to his word, twelve individuals follow him, their gazes wide with earnest interest as they form a half-circle around her. Six boys and six girls.

Much like the other students of the Officers Academy, they appear to be of age ranging between fifteen and twenty. The color of their skin resembles Claude’s, although with minimal variations here and there. Most of them are on the shorter end aside from two boys who stand nearer to Claude’s height. The weight of their eyes on her is similar to that of the students she passes every day in the halls, but there’s no denying the distinct difference. Theirs feel lighter in comparison. Not quite as full of expectations, but rather curious and observing.

It’s refreshing, and it almost makes her want to smile.

“I would say congratulations,” she starts off in her own, informal voice. Not the Headmaster’s, not the Goddess Reborn’s. Just Byleth of the Officers Academy. “But joining the Academy isn’t a privilege. It’s a right, one that you earned and that is yours just as much as the next enlisted student.” She doesn’t pause for more than a second. “We will do our best to offer you a fluid transition to the everyday life of the Academy, so that you can reach your full potential in whichever route you choose for yourself.” Byleth releases a breath, her hands still resting comfortably at her side.

“See,” Claude smirks suddenly, hovering at the edge of theatrics. “Didn’t I tell you she was the best?”

Shamir snorts quietly in the back of the room, and the combination seems to allow the kids to let go of any tension or nerves they might’ve been holding in. Some adopt a more casual posture, while others even smile a little bit.

“As Claude might’ve mentioned to you before,” Byleth carries on past his comment, granted a little more at ease herself. “The students here are divided into three houses. Since the reopening of the Academy, these houses have nothing to do with the affiliated territory, but more so with the type of skill you wish to focus on. The Eagles’ house focuses on magic and flying skills; the Lions’ house on melee techniques and weapons such as the sword, lance or axe, while the Deer’s house concentrates on bow-wielding and riding skills.”

“The professors teaching each of the houses excel at the target skill of their house but remain proficient in most skills. So, even if you, say, decide to join the Deer, you may still be able to work on swordplay, and so on.”

Claude clears his throat, directing a wink at the students. “Totally unbiased opinion here, but I think it’s safe to say we all know which house is on top.”

Shooting him a taunting look, Byleth cannot rid the impression that Claude seemed to be reverting back to his old antics. Back in his academy days, he’d proved to be, or rather, labeled himself as a first-class trickster with such dedication it hadn’t been left a secret to anyone. Always looking to shock, ruffle some feathers, and even scandalize. Byleth had known better than to fall for this one-faced character of his. She’d always known there was much, much more hiding beneath the surface.

An instinct which had proved most true during the war, when she began witnessing some of what he sheltered deep, deep down. The quirky, clever comment still being uttered here and there, but nonetheless a drastic contrast to how he had once been.

The weariness of living, and leading people through a war.

Perhaps his time in Almyra had healed some of those scars. Had brought back a certain life to him which Byleth had assumed lost amidst the ugly chaos of corrupted politics and warfare.

A peculiar heat nuzzles itself against her sternum at the realization. Claude awaits a reaction out of her, but she only swallows down the urge to smile.

Instead she pretends to be repressing an eyeroll. Shamir, as well as a few of the students, do not opt for such restraint.

“ _Ego_ , huh?” she hears one of the them murmur with a notable accent, and a few light-hearted laughs echo around the room.

Although Byleth isn’t in the loop, she notices the statement knock Claude in the face like a shovel and he gives a resigned chuckle while rubbing at his neck.

“Alright, alright. Promptly moving on.” He mutely pleads for Byleth to continue where she left off.

She doesn’t refuse the opening and brings the students’ attention back to her. “You don’t have to choose a house now. You may have the rest of the day to think it over, maybe explore around the monastery, if it helps. I will inform the three house professors that you will be attending their classes, and you may speak with them if you wish to see which house might be the best fit for you.” She doubles her effort to appear…kind, hoping none of this sounds too overwhelming. “Please submit your individual choices with Claude or Shamir before nightfall. Remember that none of it is set in stone; if you ever regret your choice, it is always possible to request a transfer into another house.”

“For any concerns, you may also reach out to the professors. Should you see me around the academy, please do not hesitate to come up to me as well.”

An irksome thought slips through suddenly, nurturing a fear that whispers behind her ear. The fear of her little speech resembling the inviting words of Lady Rhea, the ones she’d heard on countless occasions. The ones which had caused her blood to run cold. The idea drags on the skin of her back like a shadow, almost parasitic, and Byleth recoils ever so slightly.

Thankfully, Shamir jumps in before her silence can become unnatural. “On that note, let me show you all to your rooms.”

Although taken by surprise by the unanticipated change of pace, the students politely follow Shamir out of the room. Claude falls in step with them, glancing her way one last time.

This time, however, she ignores it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for the lyrics: inspired by the opening verse of this [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ch-b-pfz30U) (just picture it slower and without the beat of course, lmao)
> 
> I probably won't get into too much details regarding the little Almyrans, since that's not where I want to take the focus of the story, but they'll still appear here and there, so for the sake of it I'll name them if I see fit. Their names will mostly be of Arabic influence :)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter even though there wasn't much claudeleth interaction. Next chapter will make up for it, though (wink) (no it's not what you think, lol) 
> 
> Btw I was thinking of switching the rating to T, and up it to E in due time (i'm sure you can guess why), but idk, what do you guys think?


	6. Breaching the surface

In the end, five kids decide to join the Lions’ house and four choose the Deer. Only a minority decide to go with the Eagles’ house. Understandably so, because magic usage is not a skill that’s perceived quite in the same light in their home country.

In Almyra, there are no more than three types of magic users, for Almyran culture values physical strength and brute display of force over powers which they cannot begin to understand well.

First, the Healers. The more accepted ones. Always women, they will often be seen lending their services to infirmaries or royalty. In spite of the invaluable worth of their powers, Healers are looked down upon as individuals and will often inspire mistreatment from their clients or masters. Claude had witnessed it first-hand himself on a few occasions, gritting his teeth until he had felt the need to step in. The fact that so many of them hide their powers to live as normal citizens doesn’t surprise him, but it is yet another perception which he completely wishes to change.

One day, he tells himself.

Second are the users referred to as _Sahiras._ To say they are a recluse of society would be an understatement. Sahiras dip their hands in the chasm of darkness and bend its powers to their will. They are seductive, manipulative and corrupted in the eyes of most citizens. Because of their reputation they are feared and avoided by the vast majority, except by those who revert to buying their services for perversion or unnatural prescience.

And third are the individuals known as _Muejazas._ Although extremely scarce, they are elemental benders, believed to shape the flow of water, air and earth with a single movement of their hand. Portrayed as a drastic contrast to the other two, they are almost as revered and worshipped as the very gods of Almyran folklore. Claude has only ever come across one in his life.

The one that’s standing in front of him right now, offering him her submission form.

She’s the last one to do so, and as his eyes scan over the document he smiles, putting down his fork.

“Eagles, huh?” He glances up at her from his sitting position at the dinner table, angling himself to face her. “So, I take it you decided to embrace your magic?”

Rym opens her mouth, hesitating as she casts a look at the rest of the table, making sure no one but Claude is listening in. The others haven’t lost their manners and pay no attention to their conversation -if anything, they appear to be talking even louder amongst each other, ruling out any chance of eavesdropping. Rym seems to relax, eyes flicking back to Claude.

“I want to know how much potential I have.” The wariness she wears dissipates a little as her lips quirk up. “You were right, Khalid. Fodlan’s view of magic is so…hm,” she frowns while trying to remember the proper word. “ _Different_ , from ours. Better.”

She smacks a hand on her mouth suddenly, her eyes going wide for a split second. “Oh, I-I’m sorry. Your name just came out.” Color soars up to her cheeks. “Claude, I meant _Claude_.”

Rym nods decisively as if to anchor it in her brain using pyrography. Claude gives a short laugh, disregarding the slip. “Ah, don’t worry about it.” He motions over to where the rest of the kids have gathered to dig into their plates. “Go enjoy a new taste of Fodlan’s fine cuisine. Tomorrow will be a big day.”

She offers a grateful smile, retreating into the background to join her friends. The sight is absolutely heartwarming, and Claude turns back to his own long-time companions with a fond smile.

They’re still enlivened in their conversation, Leonie and Lysithea bickering over which house will win the first mock battle; Hilda laughing at their exchange, an arm draped over Marianne’s shoulders as she closes her mouth over Sylvain’s fork, idly stealing a bite of his dessert.

If anyone heard the slip up about his name, they don’t mention it.

Claude is appreciative but can only hope is doesn’t come back later to bite him in the face.

Old habits die hard.

Over dinner, his old classmates are ceaselessly chatty. Not that he minds, because it allows him to sit back, enjoy his favorite Fodlani dish and learn about everything that he’s missed.

And honestly, the more they talk, the less they pry for answers of his own. He’s not nearly naïve enough to believe Hilda will hold off on sharing details, especially if they stay at the Monastery for the next few months, but he’s made his peace with it.

It was nothing short of a miracle that he got her to give up on sending letters for two whole years.

There’s definitely a part of it his friends have already figured out, they’re far from being idiots, after all, but maybe it’s time to open up about…well, most of it. If the questions arise at some point, he’ll be ready to share them. Hopefully by then, he’ll have trimmed down his habit of sheltering secrets.

Secrets that aren’t really secrets anymore, he supposes.

But, like he said, old habits die hard.

He drinks in the others' words just like he sips on his Fodlan ale; learning about Leonie, Lysithea and Sylvain’s new teaching positions, as well as Marianne and Mercedes’ work at the infirmary (which of whom, they mentioned, was away for the weekend visiting Annette). About Lorenz claiming a spot in the Garreg Mach council as an official diplomat (apparently all the time he spent on the road and all the energy he poured into his new role was making him much more bearable to be around). About Felix and Ashe, both members of the Knights of Seiros, most often than not away on missions -diplomatic or others. And about Ingrid and Dedue, now Knights of King Dimitri’s personal guard, back in Fhirdiad.

He learns of Byleth’s inner circle; Catherine becoming the Captain of the Knights of Seiros, Cyril as her right-hand man and of course Shamir as her entrusted advisor and close friend.

It’s easy to keep his expression neutral when Byleth is first mentioned, thanks to years of experience, but he doesn’t miss how Hilda’s gaze lingers on him far much longer than necessary.

They also inform him of the changes made to the Academy rulebook itself. Dorm rooms no longer separated by social class or lineage, tuition fee to vary from student to student, attendance to the Saints’ celebration days optional, training time now prioritized over lectures of Fodlan history.

And irrevocable cancellation of the battle of Eagle and Lion.

Claude’s mind flicks through the last images he has of Gronder Field. Burning flesh, bloodied ground, lifeless soldiers…

…lifeless classmates.

Silence falls over the table and Claude can only assume they others are replaying those very same images to themselves. Their feast is pushed to the side, their causerie abandoned. Marianne joins her hands together, suggesting they take a moment for their all of their fallen friends.

For the Black Eagles. For Hanneman. For Seteth. For…Rhea.

Conservation gradually flows back, but the lightheartedness of it all has swooshed away. Claude digs back into his plate, his eyes lost somewhere invisible.

No one mentions how Byleth doesn't show up to dinner.

And it bothers him. Maybe more than it should.

Try as hard as he can, he can’t get rid of that leechlike thought telling him he’s the one to blame for her absence.

* * *

When someone knocks at her office door, Byleth’s dominant hand halts mid-way through signing off on the revised library listing of authorized books. A part of her wishes it’s Cyril, or even a student —hoping to share some of their personal concerns with her over a cup of tea. It happens more often than she’d imagined, but she can’t exactly blame them for not openly confiding in Shamir’s well-intentioned but nonetheless intimidating character.

She also disregards the possibility of Shamir herself standing behind her door, because she knows full well she would’ve settled for waltzing in without a word.

“Come in.”

The door slowly opens with a whine, revealing the man she’d conditioned herself into avoiding.

Not because she _wanted_ to avoid him, but because something told her she had to.

“Hey,” he says simply. Too simply. He looks bare any of those typical and carefully built facades. No craftiness, no empty smiles, no mask only a leader would wear.

No, instead he allows her to see the worry in his eyes. Fully on display, but not effortlessly so.

It makes her breath hitch in her throat. But then again, he has a knack for catching her off guard.

“Hey.” her voice is so small when she answers, and she feels the need to clear her throat.

Claude appears to hesitate, although momentarily, before closing the door behind him with a gentle click. “We missed you at dinner.” It’s more of an easy side-comment, but his smile appears a little off beat. “Lysithea inhaled three servings of apricot cobbler.”

Byleth softens her eyes as she looks down at the blotch of ink on her document. No point in trying to fix it now, she supposes. “I had a mountain of paperwork piled up on my desk.”

It’s the truth, but it still sounds like such a feeble excuse.

Claude hums, his breathy laugh lacking humor. “I can only assume how busy you must be.” He sinks into the chair facing her desk, legs slightly parted and hands naturally falling onto his thighs.

Shrugging meekly —because she doesn’t know what else to say or do— Byleth cannot bring herself to hold the weight of his eyes.

And this is such a strange, incomprehensible feeling for her. She’s used to running to his gaze for support; finding it, as youthful as it may have been, in the front row while teaching her class, searching for it during the alliance roundtables, seeking comfort in its unmatched resolve on the battlefield…

…picturing it after waking up from another nightmare —like a protective cloak she’d wrap around herself.

She only knows how to seek his eyes, not how to avoid them.

Claude sighs abruptly, and it makes her start as her pulse starts to skip. “My friend, I—.” He grimaces, like he’s frustrated in not knowing how to pull that particular thread. “I fear there’s something deeply troubling you, and it wounds me to keep on ignoring it.”

Aghast, her eyes widen at the sudden transparency of his words. The quill slips out in between her fingers, soundlessly falling from her grasp.

Byleth opens her mouth to protest but nothing comes out. With every fiber of her being, she wants to ease his worries. Dissolve them until they’re nothing but memories of the past and swipe that dire look off his face. It had been so easy to talk to him when he had been a student, why couldn’t she do it now?

Perhaps she would always be physically unable to lie to him.

Seeing as all she has to offer is silence, Claude rubs his jaw, over the bristles of his beard. His eyes don’t even try to hide their true colors. He looks dejected inside and out. “If it’s my presence that’s bothering you. I will accommodate. Just because I suggested I stay here doesn’t mean I have to.” He pauses, his lips in a thin line. “If you prefer me gone, I understand.”

An abyssal, _horrible_ feeling comes to life, and Byleth squirms on her chair. He looks so…defeated. It makes Byleth’s throat clench painfully around nothing, and guilt claws at her insides.

“But even if that’s the case, I can’t leave without knowing how you’re faring.” The words sound arduous for him to say, yet he carries on. “I can see the change in your eyes, the way you detach yourself from situations. I…” He bites down on his tongue, his voice softening as he hesitates. “I saw you singing this morning. In the Garreg Mach square.”

Her eyes jump to him, alarmed and besieged. He _saw_ her. Up there, in the skin of someone who isn’t her. He saw her pretend to care for something she does not. He saw her laying down a fat lie to hundreds of people. He saw her—.

“You might not think of me as a friend, anymore.” Claude murmurs, regret splattered across his face. “But I still see you as such. And as your friend, I owe it to you to at least make sure you live the life you want.”

A heavy silence befalls the both of them. The words swarm through Byleth’s head and it feels like she’s caught in a storm in the middle of the sea. Unaware of her surroundings and unfit to navigate to safe lands.

She squeezes her eyes shut —wondering at what point in time she began losing control over her own life. Where it began spinning out of her reach. The days of traveling from town to town with her father and their group of mercenaries feels like two, maybe three lifetimes ago.

When she recollects herself and peels her eyes open, Claude is still studying her, concern painted on his face. Patiently waiting for her to convey her thoughts.

And she cannot lie. She might be able to lie to her friends, to her students, to the people— But to him, she simply cannot.

“I didn’t want you to see me up there.” The murmured words escape on their own, almost like her lips have learned to move independently. “I hoped…to avoid it as long as possible.”

She hears Claude exhaling through his nose. Maybe some level of relief.

“Why is that?” His voice is incredibly soft, like he doesn’t want to scare her away. To some degree, it sounds like he already knows the answer, but needs her to confirm it.

Byleth’s stare is digging into the flesh of her own hand. She watches it ball into a fist —finally releasing a heavy, overdue breath. It sounds shaky, _faltering_ , and she curses herself for being so weak of mind.

Her eyes crawl up to his as she replies. “Because it isn’t me.” She catches her bottom lip between her teeth, only stopping before it draws blood. “I’m sure you heard by now, what they call me.” _Goddess Reborn._ It echoes in her mind, probably mirrored in Claude’s. “It’s a lie, all of it.” She spits it out like venom. “I’m not a religious leader. I’m not a miracle. I’m not a savior. I’m in no way an example to follow. I mean,” she notices the paper she’s crumbled in her tight grasp. “I can’t even understand myself.”

She forces her fist to relax, and it falls limp on her desk. Claude stays silent —probably wanting her to get everything off her chest while she still can. As wrong and pathetic as it is, Byleth can’t deny how liberating it feels to finally say it out loud.

So, she takes the opportunity —before the moment’s over and she has to conceal it again. Before regret starts climbing up her neck.

“As for what you said before,” she straightens her back when his eyes find hers. “No, Claude. I don’t want you to leave. And I still think of you as my friend. I think I always will.”

Byleth can tell he tries to hide his surprise. “I guess I’m reticent now because…” She briefly wets her lips to continue, because under that layer of doubt and hurt, there’s a certain empowerment that comes with being so direct.

Like she’s recovering a part of herself which she believed to be lost.

“I still can’t understand why you left without telling me.” The words finally come out in a hushed voice. It hurts as she says it. Claude’s latching onto it with a desperation she’s never witnessed before.

She keeps going.

“Without explanation, or even saying goodbye. You know I would’ve understood, no matter your reason. I guess it made me realize I was wrong… You didn’t trust me as much as I thought you did.”

 _Ah_ —

Byleth feels something breaking within her chest, yet the weight on her shoulders is somehow…lighter. No matter what Claude’s next words may be, no matter his answer or even his actions, she’ll find peace knowing she was able to tell him that much.

The expression on Claude’s face is pained, from the angle of his lips to the curve of his eyes. Maybe he’s spent the last two years hurting like she was?Something she hadn’t really considered.

“Ah,” Claude tilts his chin down, like it aches to look at her. “I suppose there’s nothing I can do to make you believe me.” His lips quirk up sadly. “But I’ll say it regardless. Because nothing I’ve ever said is truer than this: there is no one else on this earth I trust more than you.” Byleth’s blood freezes in her veins, her undivided attention on him. “I think I trust you more than I do myself.”

“I left without telling anyone because—” He stops, shakes his head as he drops a low sigh. “I didn’t want to leave. But I _had_ to. I had to struggle on my own and work toward achieving that dream of mine. And the slightest hesitation would’ve had me throw those plans to the wind. One word, and I would’ve gladly turned my back on Almyra to stay here.”

“When I heard that you were to be the leader of Garreg Mach and in charge of the Officers Academy, I wanted to reach out. Because how could I not? But…thinking back on how I left things, I don’t think it would’ve been fair to you, either. And I never doubted your capable hands, not for a second.”

Puzzle pieces snap into place, so many gnawing questions finally answered. Byleth slackens a little in her seat, her eyes still glued to his.

“For the sake of my dream, I still believe leaving was objectively the right decision. But as a man —it’s something I will probably always regret.” He squints, juggling with finding the right words. “Not just leaving but leaving like _that_. For that, I will forever be sorry. And I understand if you can’t forgive me.”

As the last sentence is uttered, they both give into the spell of muteness. Byleth lets her gaze flow down, like a feather pulled down by gravity, to her incomplete signature on the document. The clock on the wall gently ticks with each passing second.

For the first time in two years, she tears down the barriers in her mind and allows herself to consider Claude, and everything he is. She recalls his boyish grins, his hanging braid, his unusual interest for poisons, his teasing winks. She remembers the first time his beard caught her by surprise, the dark circles under his eyes after he’d spent the entire night going over battle plans, the earnest way he’d ask for her support, and offer his in return. She pictures the emptiness left behind by his absence. The warmth of having him back…

But amongst all of those musings, only one realization stands out; the only one what truly matters.

He still trusts her.

He never stopped trusting her.

Maybe, just like her, he always will.

After everything that’s happened, maybe that’s the one variable that will never change.

Their mutual faith in each other.

The fragments of her broken heart shift into her ribcage, like Sothis waking up from a long, long nap. She can feel them piecing back together, clutching on with a new resolve to never let go.

It’s fragile, but it’s whole again.

“I think I…understand.” At last, her voice pierces through the room. She tests it out, and it feels _right_ to say. A smile sews itself onto her face and she brings two fingers to her lips to feel it. She meets Claude’s awe-struck, disbelieving gaze, and her smile only widens. “Yeah, I _understand_.” She repeats it, amazed in how _true_ it tastes on her tongue.

“I trust you.” She says, an inexplicable serenity settling into her chest. “I never stopped trusting you. And that’s why all I can do right now is believe you.”

Claude appears at a loss for words, a slight crease to his forehead. “My friend, even if you still trust me, you don’t have to forgive me—.”

“Claude,” she interrupts the end of his sentence. There’s a sudden wish to touch him, but because he’s a little too far, she settles for laying her hand at the edge of her desk. The smile she offers is light, but it reaches her eyes. “You are the most selfless person I’ve ever met… What kind of person would I be if I held a grudge?”

He’s still staring at her, wide eyes and lips parted as if rendered purely speechless. From the furrow of his brows, it looks like he’s fighting a guilt of his own, one he’s harbored for a long time. His fingers twitch on his lap and he reaches out to lay his hand on top of hers, holding in within his own like wanting nothing more than to cherish it.

His next words make her heart wilt. “I don’t deserve you.”

Like him, she rests her eyes upon their united hands. She shakes her head lightly, feeling more like herself than she has since he left. “I think it’s the other way around.”

When he scoffs, it’s barely audible. A smile pulls at his mouth. “Ah, you’re impossible. How about we make a compromise, then?” He raises his eyes to hers. “And say…we deserve each other.”

Her smile lingers at the words, and she realizes this is probably the most she’s ever smiled in her life. Deserving of each other…

These are words she’ll forever hold close to her heart, no matter what the future may bring.

She nods. “That sounds fair.”

Byleth is glad to see he appears a little more at peace, significantly less tormented than he did when he came in. Seemingly mindlessly, Claude’s thumb stokes the back of her hand. In a way, it’s soothing. But it also awakens… _something_. She has no clue what it is, but it tingles on her skin and runs up her arm, spreading a pleasant fire.

Before she can sink into the comfort of it, Claude’s swipes his hand away, leaving her hand strangely cold in return. Byleth brings her hand back to herself and inadvertently rubs it.

Claude clears his throat, rising from his chair. Noticing the atypical color on his cheeks, Byleth fleetingly wonders if the same kind of warmth affected him, too.

“Then, I say this warrants a do-over.”

Before she can ask what he means, he extends his hand —this time in the form of a handshake.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, my name is Khalid.” His smile is vulnerable —something he has never showed to the rest of the world. It makes her stomach flip.

_Khalid…_

Byleth swallows, taking a second to get over the surprise and the meaning of his confession. For now, she stores her questions in for later. The legs of her chair drag on the floor as she gets up, letting her hand meet his.

“Byleth.” A squeeze in a muted promise. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Khalid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOOM, I couldn't wait any longer before dropping this particular chapter, heh. This officially ends part 1 of the story. Next chapter will be the beginning of part 2 (I'm expecting three parts in total, although they won't all be the same length as I think part 2 & 3 will be longer). 
> 
> The bit about the magic users is nothing but a fruit of my imagination, I can just see Almyrans having a very different view of magic in general. _Sahira_ could mean witch, sorceress or unsleeping, while _Muejaza_ means miracle or wonder in Arabic (according to my extensive research, I hope I got that right). 
> 
> ALSO this fic has already reached over 100 kudos!!! Like... wat??? That was so fast, you guys are awesome!! 
> 
> Also #2: I caved in and made a [fan twitter](https://twitter.com/_rainberries_) account, I mainly retweet FE3H (more specifically Claudeleth of course) stuff but if you wanna talk and potentially get updates about my fic schedule, you can follow me!
> 
> Also #3: After seeing your answers I decided to change the rating to T, with an eventual upgrade to E (y'know it). Just wanted to say thank you for all of you guys' support, I'm so glad you like the story enough to stick with it no matter the rating (cries happy tears) <3 
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed that little heart-to-heart between our two lovebirds, see you soon! xoxo


	7. [PART 2] Falling into your steps

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**PART 2: _Purples and pinks_**

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After leaving Byleth’s office with a lighter heart and a clearer mind, Claude checks up on the kids before calling it a night. Most of them are a little on edge, admittedly, but this successful introduction to the Academy seems to have eased most of their worries. A selected few inquire about the dress code and question the uniform sitting on their nightstand. He explains it to the best of his capacities, and he’s relieved when they seem to go along with his advice —after all, Almyra’s view on clothing is very expressive and…liberate. Significantly less conservative, to put it mildly.

In the last few months with the kids, he’s thoroughly explored the differences between Almyran and Fodlan customs to ensure they would have a generally good idea of what to expect. It would be naïve of him to say he’s not expecting some degree of an adaptation period. He knows it’ll take some time for them to grow accustomed to their new lifestyle, but he’s got no reason to believe they won’t be ready for it. He’ll be with them every step of the way; helping them perfect their Fodlan tongue with weekly lessons and providing counsel whenever necessary.

The only thing left to chance, and Goddess knows Claude hates leaving things to chance, will be the reaction of other students.

It’s an overlapping concern he’d manage to set aside until now —his own experience is the proof that things can always go south when you least expect it, after all. But he knows Byleth, and despite having come back here merely three days ago, he doesn’t doubt her capabilities when it comes to managing students, not even for a second.

As he bids goodnight to Rym and steps back into the hallway, Claude bites back a yawn, covering his mouth with his fist while partly closing his eyes. When he opens them again, he finds Shamir leaning on the opposing brick wall, one foot propped up as support, arms crossed and eyes peering at him like a hawk on a branch.

Uh oh.

Had she been waiting for him? Following them, even? He hadn’t heard any footsteps. Hadn’t caught glimpse of any shadows, hadn’t felt any presence, nothing. All senses he’s developed unconventionally well over the years.

As the distance between them grows smaller, Claude sends a smile her way —fully conscious of the fact that it probably won’t play in his favor. “Hey there, Shamir.” His greeting comes out in the form of a modest head bow. “Still patrolling the Monastery streets at night?”

She doesn’t answer, at least not straight away. Claude would be lying if he said he didn’t feel scrutinized under her stare. He briefly wonders if she has the vision of a nocturnal predator as well, because it sure looks like the darkness poses her no problem at all.

“In all honesty,” she says and catches him by surprise with her forwardness. “Cyril asked me to keep an eye on you.”

Cyril, huh?

“Ah,” he ticks. “And may I ask why?”

Another dragging moment. “He doesn’t trust you.” She gives a half shrug. “Considering his background, can’t say I blame him.”

Claude hums, winning himself some time to consider the situation. It’s something he had seen coming a mile away, especially after finding out Cyril was Byleth’s right hand, but he can’t say he had expected it to dawn on him this fast.

“I see.” It’s his turn to study her, hands digging in his pants pockets as he decides to drop a part of his somewhat permanent mask. Shamir is clever. And poised. In this situation, it would be wiser to get rid of any bullshit act. “And what about you?”

She lets a beat pass by before a subtle smirk comes forth. “As a former leader in Fodlan and a representative of Almyra, I can trust you.” She pushes herself off the wall. “But for the rest, it all depends on you.”

And on that note she begins walking away, only looking back once before the dark alley swallows her whole. “Goodnight, Claude.”

* * *

The next morning, Byleth schedules an early impromptu meeting with the three professors, much to Sylvain’s chagrin —if the grogginess of his voice and the improvised cup of coffee he drags with him are anything to go by.

Okay, so the sun had yet to rise, but in Byleth’s defense, they had many details and curriculum adjustments to go over.

Claude has insisted on being present as well, seeing as he would act as the pillar between faculty members and the new Almyran students. Byleth couldn’t argue on that.

“For the house leaders,” Byleth addresses the next point on her list after swallowing down her spoonful of porridge. “We’ll extend the assigned deadline and allow the new students to adjust to classes, not to mention it will give you time to grasp their different skills and personalities so that they may be considered for the role as well.”

The back of her neck prickles, all too aware of Claude’s eyes on her from where he’s leaning on the wall, attentive to the conversation but not actively partaking in it. “They shouldn’t be penalized for joining later and will be given the same opportunities as the others.” She catches the fleeting sight of Claude’s satisfied smile and, for the gist of it, feels the need to clarify. “Obviously, that doesn’t mean any special treatment, either.”

Lysithea scribbles something down —in a book which Byleth recognizes as her lesson plan. She looks up from her task with a raised brow. “House leaders in a month’s time, then?”

Sylvain stifles a stretching yawn, finishing what can only appear to be his third serving of caffeine. Bringing her own cup of tea to her lips for a sip, Byleth spares a curious thought wondering what could cause him to be so tired. Sure, he’s never been much of a morning person, but neither has he ever displayed such a penchant for brewed coffee beans.

“Do not fret over it. We’ll adjust accordingly, and until further notice we’ll hold our meetings twice a week instead of only once.” Byleth announces to the group, to which all three nod along —Leonie casually, Lysithea attentively, Sylvain absentmindedly. “Should you encounter any issue, you may go to Claude. He will remain at the Monastery for the students’ transition.”

Byleth pauses as she looks over at the clock. Classes will be starting soon, so she needs to wrap this up. She draws in a breath, a certain cloud falling over her. “This may be touchy subject to approach, but we need to keep an eye open for any sort of degradation.” This time serious eyes jump to her, even Sylvain’s.

“This isn’t a matter of one black sheep within a herd. This is about changing judgments that have been implemented for decades or more; teaching your students values of open-mindedness, of compassion and companionship.” She narrows her eyes, solemn in communicating the weight and importance of her words.

She meets her former students’ eyes one at a time. “No act or words, in any kind of form, of xenophobia or racism will be tolerated. As supervisors, you need to be on the lookout. And if you notice anything, and I mean _anything_ , you report it to me. Understood?”

Again, but this time with earnest understanding, the three professors nod. Byleth releases a quiet breath, purposely averting her gaze from the corner where Claude is standing.

His words of way back when swim through her mind; words of outsiders, of being resented and _hated_ , of attempts on his life…

Byleth halts her thoughts before anger can start bubbling up within her. This is neither the time nor place.

“Thank you for being so adapting,” she tells them, her expression softening. “I’m sorry to ask so much in so little time, but—.”

“Actually,” Claude’s voice cuts in suddenly. “I think that’s my line, Teach.” He turns to the now-professors, past fellow-students and allies with an appreciative nod. “I know it’s a lot to ask of you three, of Teach, of the Academy altogether. And I want to apologize for dropping it all on you out of the blue, but I want you to know I am deeply and forever grateful. I’m sure the students are, too.” He smiles. “If they turn out to be a handful, please let me handle it.”

Lysithea buries her scoff. “It’s astonishing how you still don’t know how to accept help.” Her cold eyes meet his surprised ones, but it’s clear she’s slowly warming up to him being back. “You know we’ll do anything to support your and Professor Byleth’s plans, and it’s something we’ll do _willingly_.”

“She’s right, Claude.” Leonie strides in with a playful nudge to his side. She smirks, crossed leg swinging under the table. “We would’ve helped you a long time ago, too, had you just asked.”

Certainly not the reaction Claude had been expecting, judging by the perplexity of his eyes. His mouth hangs slightly agape, closing only when it’s Sylvain’s turn to speak.

“And don’t worry about the students,” he chimes with a laidback smile. “We’re here to offer guidance to those kids, no matter who they are or where they come from, just like the Professor did for us.” He shrugs. “We’re all in.”

Claude rubs his neck, a breathy titter flowing past his lips. “Ah— Right. Thank you, each of you.”

As a result of their conversation of last night, Byleth can clearly see Claude doing his best to fight against his nature of deceitfulness. Perhaps, so used to pushing people away, he completely forgot how to let them in.

Still, she can only be glad he’s finally decided to trust his old classmates.

As Lysithea and Leonie take a head start to make their way to class, Claude gathers the dishes they used for breakfast in his arms, careful not to drop any, and piles it up on the silver tray in the back of the room. Byleth takes the opportunity to accost Sylvain before he, too, leaves for his own lesson.

“Sylvain,” she starts, her voice hushed. “Is everything okay?”

He raises a brow at her question, not wasting time in flashing a killer smile. “Of course, Professor. Why, worried about me?”

The flirtatious notes in his tone are laid on thick, and he doesn’t miss the way Claude visibly stiffens in the corner.

Byleth, as expected, doesn’t catch on. “You seemed more tired than usual. Distracted, even.”

“Ah… Nothing more than mild insomnia.” He leans in closer, close enough in fact to whisper in her ear. “Although if you were to worry about me more often, I can’t say that I’d mind.”

Claude has angled his chin in a way that suggests he’s straining his ears to hear their conversation. His grip on the food cart is tight; Sylvain even notices how his knuckles have turned white.

He suppresses a snigger and attempts to tame his smile as he straightens himself, not leaving before he successfully brushes a lock of Byleth’s hair away from her face and tucks it behind her ear.

Byleth only stares at his retrieving form with an unaffected, suspicious frown; completely unaware of the tensed man behind her.

* * *

The next few days pass by in a blur. The addition of the new students is a surprise to most, but the way Leonie, Lysithea and Sylvain handle the situation is nothing short of brilliant. Turns out when you put the sole focus on the human aspect of it all — until the students’ thoughts are of nothing but the grip on their sword, the pronunciation of their incantation or the angle of their elbow as they release an arrow, people tend to forget their differences as if they had been stripped away.

It’s almost like watching magic occur on its own, Claude tells her one day when passing her by in the Cathedral.

Claude himself gets a little more comfortable, she can tell. He ditches the ‘sickeningly boring disguise’ (as Hilda would call it) for clothes with a color that reflects his own. It doesn’t give off that same regal impression than what he wore as Duke Riegan but is instead a perfect balance of Fodlan and Almyran roots.

It’s perfectly _Claude_.

Perfectly _Khalid_.

He’s given an office space to continue his daily Fodlani lessons with the new students and to handle correspondence with Almyra. When Byleth brings up the idea of him hosting seminars, he appears surprised, but eventually accepts with a smile.

A routine of sorts sets in without any of them really pointing it out.

Except for Hilda, who seems more than satisfied with getting up at a ridiculously late hour, visiting the infirmary or the homerooms probably too often to justify, and overall just loitering around the Monastery.

One day, Byleth suggests she follows Claude’s lead and hosts seminars herself — to which Hilda proceeds to throw in a handful of strained excuses before caving in by saying she’ll consider it.

Byleth takes it as a win.

When Friday night comes by, Byleth jumps on the opportunity to hit the training grounds for some much-needed solitary exercise. Her wrist is cramped, her brain fried and her rear sore from hopping from one chair to another. From meeting to meeting. From office work to court hearings.

Trading blows with a lifeless dummy in a quiet room practically sounds like heaven on earth.

And when Cyril walks in and asks her to spar, she accepts without hesitation.

She’s the first one to attack, perhaps a little too eager to fight against a living, breathing _person_ for once. Axes aren’t normally her weapons of choice and dancing out of her comfort zone feels invigorating. Cyril blocks, the training axe much more comfortable in his hand than hers, and pushes her off — although not hard enough to throw her off balance.

He comes at her next, throwing blows left and right. Cyril is strong, has grown even more so in the years following the war, but his speed is nowhere near hers and Byleth dodges his attacks like it’s a second nature. She crouches, turns and bents backwards — the adversary weapon slicing through the air around her. She makes sure it always misses by barely more than a hair. It’s more fun that way.

Swinging her own training axe upwards, a collision rings loudly with a clash of dull metal. Byleth meets Cyril’s eyes in the fleeting seconds that hang still, and instantly sees it. Something’s off.

He must realize that she’s noticed because he falters in his stance, and even though it’s only for a split second, it’s enough for Byleth to overpower him and knock the axe straight out of his hand.

She stares at it as it lays unnaturally on the ground, chest heaving ever so faintly. Her eyes trail over to Cyril, who seems adamant on avoiding any eye-contact.

“You're distracted. Your mind is somewhere else.”

It’s nothing short of a statement, and she doesn’t bother asking. When it comes to Cyril, straight-forwardness is infinitely timesaving as well as appreciated on his end, she's learned.

Judging by the way he scrunches up his nose, he appears to be holding something back. His fists visibly tense at his sides before he speaks. “May I speak freely?”

Byleth softens her stare, nodding. “You know you can always speak freely, Cyril.”

How many times had she told him there was no need to act so formal around her? How many times had she corrected him after he’d accidentally call her _Lady_ Byleth? Just because she was filling up the Archbishop’s role didn’t mean he had to see her any differently. It had taken over a year of insisting before he started considering going along with her wishes. Even now, it was a constant struggle on his part.

He sighs — a deep, sudden, _frustrated_ sigh.

“Claude von Riegan,” he spits out, his gaze falling sober as he finally meets hers halfway.

Byleth doesn’t add anything to that. Doesn’t change her expression either, because on some levels it’s something she had been expecting to hear ever since Claude’s return. A concern she knew had to be rumbling about in the confines of the boy’s mind.

Cyril tenses in response to her silence. “Do you really think he can be trusted?”

The silence hangs in the air for a lingering moment before Byleth exhales a sigh of her own, although much lighter than Cyril’s. “I won’t ask you to trust him, or even tell you to blindly trust my judgement.” She says and pauses. “But just to hear me out when I say I his intentions are good. Selfless.”

His forehead creases, and Byleth debates whether or not to push further. Biting the inside of her cheek, she half-heartedly throws caution to the wind.

“I can only imagine how his spontaneous return must make you feel—”

“It’s not just about _him_ , though,” He interrupts the end of the sentence, surprising her as she bites back her words. “It’s about all of them.” The scoff that escapes his throat is one of bitter derision. “Almyrans…they _think_ differently. The way they see violence…it’s—”

He trails off in a way that makes Byleth thinks he may have bitten down on his tongue to keep the vile words at bay. There’s a flare of hatred in his eyes, she can see it all too clearly. But beyond that lies something else; something so much more difficult to understand. Something Cyril is fighting to push back down, to shelter until it starves and dies.

Because it’s so much easier to ignore it and to welcome the anger instead.

It makes her stomach hurt, to see Cyril so at war with himself.

Walking over to him, she notices that his hands are once again balled in tight fists. She presses a hand to his shoulder, hoping it can offer him some sort of comfort.

And she prays her next words do not drive him to hate _her_ , too.

“Cyril, you don’t have to feel guilty for wanting to learn about your homeland.”

Byleth braces herself for him to lash out. She’s reached farther than she can manage, probably farther than she even has the right to. She can only hope these were the words he needed to hear.

He drops his eyes to hers and she tries to convey as much solace as she possibly can. For a moment she thinks he’s going to jerk her hand away and storm off, but then his bottom lip twitches, and his Adam’s apple visibly bobs as he swallows with obvious difficulty.

The tensed muscles of his shoulder relax under her hand.

“…Don’t I?” His voice cracks; she’s reminded of young Cyril who trailed after every occasion to help Rhea, back when she was starting off as a professor. “Because there’s this voice in my head telling me I should.”

Byleth shakes her head weakly, albeit without any hesitation. “No, you shouldn’t. If you can believe one thing, it’s this.”

And when he lets go of his anger and drops his head on her shoulder, Byleth’s chest aches — it aches for this child who’s had to live through more violence than he could handle with no parents at his side. Aches for Claude, who’s life had been threatened probably younger than it ever should have been. It aches for their lost childhoods, and so many more.

Yet, she finds comfort knowing Claude has already began to shape the world in the right direction, and she’s finally falling into step with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a few days late, sorry about that! Hope you liked it :)
> 
> (Alright I'm off playing smash because I just bought Byleth and I need to learn ALL OF HER MECHANICS OMGG-) 
> 
> xoxo


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